
REV. DAVID BEARN E. S. J. 





* 


CHARLIE CHITTYWICK 


























































































































































































































Charlie Chittywick 


BY 

REV. DAVID BEARNE, S.J., 

Author of “ Sanctity's Romance: Stories of the Bright Ages,” 
"The Ridingdale Boys,” etc. 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PRINTERS TO THE HOLY APOSTOLIC SEE 

1906 


LIBRARY of CONGRESS 

Two Copies Received 


SEE 15 1906 


jcpyrigiU Entry 
/¥,/?<>& 
CLAS£ O' XX c., No. 

S33 

COPY B. 




Copyright, 1906, by Benziger Brothers 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Chapter I. Forty Years Ago 7 

Chapter II. The Loafer of Loafers 16 

Chapter III. A Determined Resolve 25 

Chapter IV. A New Hand 41 

Chapter V. The Week End 48 

Chapter VI. Saturday Night 59 

Chapter VII. The Armstrongs 67 

Chapter VIII. Questions and Answers 78 

Chapter IX. Three Months Later 90 

Chapter X. A Dilemma . . 99 

Chapter XI. The Messenger Boy 109 

Chapter XII. Taking Advice 118 

Chapter XIII. Four Months Later 127 

Chapter XIV. A Father’s Crime 136 

Chapter XV. Hearing the News 145 

Chapter XVI. Mrs. Marson’s Way 157 

Chapter XVII. Freddy’s Wonderment 165 

Chapter XVIII. After the Trial 170 

Chapter XIX. “The End of a Twelve-Month” .... 184 

Chapter XX. Coming of Age 189 

Chapter XXL Nine Years Later 199 






\ 


CHARLIE CHITTYWICK 

CHAPTER I. 

FORTY YEARS AGO. 

In the sixties, the High Street of Ridingdale was much 
more picturesque than it is to-day. To begin with, there 
were fewer shops, and just one solitary window of plate 
glass — the extravagant idea of a draper who tried to live 
up to it and failed, in more senses than one. Now, I think, 
there is but one establishment that does not display its 
wares behind panes that are insured against the flying stone 
or the kicking horse. 

Personally I think them much less interesting than the 
old bow-windows, and not nearly so artistic as the bull’s-eye 
panes that provoked curiosity and gave to certain wares a 
fictitious value. At night-time the old glass lit up quite 
bewitchingly, and if you were a boy with the smallest gift 
of imagination you could see more things in those fan- 
tastically-shaped knobs than modern young ladies (of both 
sexes) see by crystal-gazing and other fooleries. 

The beautiful is always the useful; of its own nature it 
must be so. But the converse does not hold. The useful, 
i.e., the merely useful, if often very ugly, though its utility 
may justify its existence. Some of the old Ridingdale 

7 


8 


FORTY YEARS AGO 


shops soon showed a tendency to become crowded. On 
market day it was no uncommon thing to see people wait- 
ing on the pavement outside until the surging throng of 
three or four people at the counter had brought their busi- 
ness, plus a little gossip, to an end. When you come “ into 
town ” only once a week you wish to enjoy yourself, and 
hurry is not conducive to enjoyment — or gossip. More- 
over, at the grocer’s a good deal of exchange went on, and 
involved arithmetical puzzles that sometimes taxed the 
shopman’s ability. For farmers’ wives brought butter and 
eggs, to say nothing of cheese and poultry, and old Har- 
wood’s temper was sometimes sorely tried over bargains 
that these ladies tried to drive. “ Butter was making an 
old man of him,” he was once heard to say, and when he 
died, I think about a year afterwards, little Freddy Arm- 
strong thought how sad it was that such a good man should 
be killed by so necessary an article. No mention of butter 
was made upon his tomb-stone and Freddy thought it a 
pity. But at that time the boy was very young. 

There was the same difficulty at Miss Rippell’s. The 
little shop itself — being at once a stationer’s and booksel- 
ler’s, and emporium for fancy goods, a Berlin-wool ware- 
house and a circulating library — yielded but the minimum 
of space to its customers. There were two chairs at the 
counter, and once these were occupied by two ladies in the 
costume of the period, the establishment shrank to rather 
small dimensions; so small indeed that Freddy, to whom 
some parts of Miss Rippell’s were as a fairy palace, greatly 


FORTY YEARS AGO 


9 


resented the presence of spreading crinolines and those who 
wore them. For the big counter was a literary Eldorado, 
and the picture papers alone were a small boy’s feast. 

Once, however, the stress of market day was over, there 
were times when even Miss Rippell’s and the grocer’s were 
empty by the hour together. Such periods were the loafer’s 
opportunity. 

There were several loafers in Ridingdale, chiefly of the 
retired tradesmen and “ independent gentlemen ” order. 
They had no club and (happily for them) they could not 
spend all their time in the bar-room of the Ridingdale 
Arms. I said there were no clubs: there were several of 
an informal and casual sort. One met every morning of 
the week, except Sundays, at Colpington’s. Colpington 
was the chemist, and the coterie that assembled at his coun- 
ter was small and exclusive. It generally consisted of Colo- 
nel Ruggerson, Dr. Nuttlebig, and old lawyer Hipkins. If 
their number was added to, it was by accident. They dis- 
cussed the news of the day, both local and general, and 
buyers of penn’orths of syrups and ounces of essences and 
oils were often entertained by heated political arguments. 
The Illustrated London News and Punch always lay on a 
side counter to afford entertainment to waiting customers. 

But the person who might aptly be called the Loafer of 
Loafers belonged to no club, however informal. He gave 
one the impression of belonging to nothing and nobody — 
albeit he was at the service of everybody. His taste seemed 
to be for shops ; it is certain that particular shops were very 


10 


FORTY YEARS AGO 


much to his taste. The baker, the confectioner, and the 
grocer were more honoured, or exasperated, by the atten- 
tions of Master Charles Chittywick than either Miss Rip- 
pell or Mr. Colpington ; yet there were times when both the 
bookseller and the chemist gave him shelter and conversa- 
tion, if not hospitality. Charlie had his uses, of course. 
He did not belong to the class from which errand boys are 
usually taken, but he was always ready to run here and 
there with parcel or letter or message. Nay, there were 
days when he was actually in demand as a kind of supple- 
mentary-deputy-sub-assistant errand-lad. These were good 
days for Charlie. 

When Freddy Armstrong, the maltster’s son, was six and 
a half, Charlie seemed to be a big lad — though he was 
rather small for his age. In some vague childish way 
Freddy was sorry for him. More than once indeed Freddy 
had reason to be grateful to him. The distance to his dame 
school was so short that the little chap was sometimes al- 
lowed to go alone but between his home and Miss Pitchett’s 
there lived a terrible ogre of a boy whose very name 
frightened him. The ogre was called Skinny Bobington. 
He never really assaulted Freddy, but he had a habit of 
dancing across the road with outspread arms and hideous 
cries and grimaces that terrified the little chap exceedingly. 
A nurse who ought to have known better told him that 
Bobington was called “ Skinny ” because he had once 
skinned a small boy alive and eaten him for supper. He 
certainly looked quite capable of cannibalism. 


FORTY YEARS AGO 


ii 


One day Charlie Chittywick came up just in the nick of 
time and Skinny Bobington went down with great rapidity 
— was rolled over in the dust and retired howling. Freddy 
was too frightened, or too shy, to thank Charlie at the 
time, but the child’s interest in his rescuer was deepened 
by this incident. 

At this period Charlie always looked pale and ill and 
very hungry. He rarely seemed to have anything to do. 
Often too he looked cross and discontented, and generally 
unhappy ; but for this he would have been rather handsome, 
for his features were small and regular, and he had the 
curliest hair of any lad in Ridingdale. His clothes were 
always shabby, yet somehow he always looked neat and 
clean, and not all like the down-at-heel loafer he really was. 
His sad face used to haunt Freddy — particularly on summer 
evenings when seven o’clock bed meant lying awake for a 
good hour or more, and when the tales he told himself took 
on a melancholy tinge and ended in a distressing waking 
dream. Often in these stories Charlie was his hero. The 
shadow of sorrow seemed to be thick upon him, and try as 
Freddy would he could not make his hero’s history end 
happily. 

Now and then Freddy saw him in the highest possible 
spirits, and the sight did him good. When they met 
they always nodded and smiled, and Freddy never dreamt 
of saying his prayers without mentioning Charlie’s name. 
But when Freddy pleaded that his benefactor might be 
asked — at any rate to the orchard and garden, for playing 


12 


FORTY YEARS AGO 


purposes, his mother told him kindly but firmly that that 
could never be. Freddy little guessed that Charlie was 
known to most people as the biggest liar and thief in 
Ridingdale. 

The loafer had won his heart. If he could have done so 
Freddy would have shared with him everything he had. 
He was shy of stopping to speak to him, and as often as 
not would put the apple or orange or biscuits into Charlie’s 
hands without saying a word. “ Are you sure you don’t 
want them ? ” the big boy would ask. He always hesitated 
to take what was offered him. Sometimes indeed he 
looked troubled and perplexed, and held the thing in his 
outstretched hand that Freddy might take it back if he 
chose to do so; unlike Skinny Bobington who once, pro- 
pitiated with six pear-drops, had immediately put them in 
his mouth and asked for more. 

“ But, I say — isn’t it your lunch or something? ” Charlie 
asked one day when, on his way to school, Freddy gave him 
a big hunch of plum-cake neatly wrapped in tissue paper. 
The child shook his head and said nothing — hoping that he 
was not acting a lie. It was his eleven o’clock snack, this 
hunch of cake, and Charlie knew it. 

“ You oughtn’t to give me this,” he said, trying to slip 
it back into Freddy’s small pocket. “ It’s jolly good of 
you, of course. You’re an awfully decent kid and I like 
you ever so much. And, look here,” he continued as he 
began to cram the little package into the child’s pocket — 


FORTY YEARS AGO 


13 


“ if Skinny Bobington frightens you again, just tell me and 
I’ll punch his head for him.” 

He was stooping down to force the wedge of cake into 
a pocket that was much too small for it when Freddy sud- 
denly flung his arms about Charlie’s neck and kissed him. 

“ What’s that for? ” the loafer demanded with a puzzled 
and amused smile. “ What an affectionate little beggar 
you are ! ” he exclaimed with a laugh. “ It’s a jolly long 
time since anybody kissed me, I can tell you. Why did you 
do it? ” 

In another moment the big boy was out of sight. 

Freddy must have caught the spirit of pity, and therefore 
of love, from his mother. Her sympathy was affective and 
effective, and but for her husband, who had his own reasons 
for disliking Charlie Chittywick, she would have done much 
for the loafer. As it was, she dared not suffer him to come 
near the house. A little Protestant child of six has no very 
clear idea as to what a Papist may be; Freddy gathered 
that it was something very dreadful — much worse than 
thief and liar — and that Charlie Chittywick was a Papist. 

In the early sixties, the Catholic congregation of Riding- 
dale was a tiny one, and nearly half its members lived 
several miles from the little chapel built by Colonel Rug- 
gerson’s grandfather at the end of the eighteenth century. 
Happily, a Ruggerson had always lived in Ridingdale, and 
though there had been times when Mass was said only once 
a month, the chapel had never been abandoned. It was in 
these same sixties that a good old Irish priest, one Father 


14 


FORTY YEARS AGO 


Connelly, rode sixteen miles every Sunday — at intervals he 
came on Sunday afternoon — to give this small scattered 
flock the benefits of their religion. One third of the con- 
gregation was Irish, most of them farm labourer's who had 
come over to England for harvesting and, for pne reason 
or other, had not returned to their own country. 

But Colonel Ruggerson was a power in Ridingdale; no 
one could afford to quarrel with him. For years the Hall 
had been shut up, and there was no one in the neighbour- 
hood to dispute the Colonel’s right to be regarded as the 
leading inhabitant and the representatively wealthy man. 
If he had cared to do so he might have called himself 
Squire of Ridingdale : his military title, perhaps, saved him 
from being so addressed in every-day conversation with the 
townsfolk. At that time it seemed exceedingly unlikely 
that the Hall would ever receive another tenant; as a mat- 
ter of fact, some years later than the period I am writing 
of, it was taken possession of by the newly-married and 
very poor grandson of old Lord Dalesworth — Jack Riding- 
dale. My readers must clearly understand that I am intro- 
ducing them to a period long anterior to the birth of Lance- 
lot Ridingdale and his brothers. . 

Mr. Frederick Armstrong, farmer as well as maltster, 
was a moneyed man. Little Freddy was his youngest child 
and his only son — though there were three daughters. 
Armstrong was a Baptist and everybody knew it. The 
Baptist minister of Ridingdale was painfully aware of it. 
Dissent was strong in this country town, but the strongest 


FORTY YEARS AGO 


i5 


of the sects was that of the Calvinistic Baptists, and quite 
the strongest of the Baptists was Freddy’s father. Arm- 
strong had a freehold farm: his finger was in every local 
pie. He was a guardian of the poor, chairman of the Local 
Board, the biggest shareholder in the local Gas Company, 
and greatest distinction of all, a director of a great Railway 
Company. “ Armstrong is a warm man,” was a remark 
often made in the bar-room of the Ridingdale Arms — a re- 
mark always assented to. 

Only once had he been taken in by a fellow-townsman, 
but the take-in was a serious one. And the man who had 
effected it and who was daily denounced by the warm- 
tempered, as well as warm-pocketed, maltster, was Charlie 
Chittywick’s father — “ the greatest scoundrel that ever 
darkened my doors,” Mr. Armstrong said. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE LOAFER OF LOAFERS. 

The Chittywick family had always been a shiftless one. 
Its head was a man of many pretensions and of the shadiest 
reputation. In days when it was easy for a person who had 
failed in everything else to offer himself as an instructor of 
youth, he had kept a school : a sorry affair that was labelled 
“ Seminary for Young Gentlemen.” And for a few years 
it actually succeeded. As many as fourteen boarders and 
nearly twenty day-boys were for a short time found in 
Mr. Chittywick’s school. What and how he taught, need 
not be told. He was the son of a factory-hand at Hardlow 
and had begun life as a pupil-teacher in the elementary 
school there. 

When the Seminary broke up, as it did after two or three 
fitful years, Mr. Chittywick began to travel on commission. 
He had married a woman quite as shiftless and irrespon- 
sible as himself and, if anything, more pretentious. She 
was a Catholic, and had been — some said a lady’s-maid, 
some said a nursery-governess. They had two daughters 
and a son. 

If William Lethers had had the time and the inclination, 
he could have told many amusing, and some very sad, 

stories of the Chittywicks. Rents in Ridingdale were not 

16 


THE LOAFER OF LOAFERS 


i ; 


high, and the Chittywicks, as became their pretentions to 
gentility, lived in one of several big old houses that had 
stood in the High Street from the beginning of the century 
— houses that seemed to have no right to be found among 
so many shops. The Chittywick mansion was detached 
and had a fair garden lying behind it, but (we are speaking 
of the days when he was in business) William’s clog-shop 
was, practically, next door. 

It is superfluous to say that the two families were not on 
visiting terms, yet there were times when the Chittywicks 
found the Lethers very useful. When Mrs. Chittywick, 
during the absence of Mr. Chittywick whose travelling 
naturally kept him away from home a great deal, discovered 
herself to be without “ change,” it was natural that she 
should look to Mrs. Lethers for a loan. There were times 
when the loan was repaid ; but it is certain that Mrs. Chitty- 
wick thought Mrs. Lethers somewhat honoured by being 
permitted to lend money to so distinguished a family. 

The two Miss Chittywicks completely ignored both Wil- 
liam and his wife, but to their disgust their brother Charlie 
was very friendly with the Lethers. Scarcely a day passed 
but he would stroll into the shop for a chat, and he would 
now and then drop into the little back-parlour, and some- 
times of an evening play a game of draughts with one of 
William’s lads. Nor would Master Charlie refuse an invi- 
tation to tea or supper. Mrs. Lethers declared the lad was 
“ half clammed,” and sometimes he certainly looked it. It 
was in vain that his sisters protested against this lowering 


18 THE LOAFER OF LOAFERS 

of the family dignity. Charlie declared that William was a 
very good sort and so was his wife. 

At this period of Charlie’s life he was struggling, strug- 
gling daily, with a monster most dreaded by the natural 
man, or boy — Hunger. Consequently, any person, any 
house, that gave promise of food was cultivated by the 
loafer. What a long time it seemed since his father’s bank- 
ruptcy and the giving up of the school! Yet it was only 
two years since he had sat down to four good meals a day ; 
for whatever may have been the quality of the mental food 
imparted to his pupils, Mr. Chittywick did not starve their 
bodies. 

What a time it had been, Charlie often thought — these 
two years of loafing and starving! If only he could stop 
growing! If only he could get something to do that would 
suffice to bring him regular meals! If only one or two 
people would forgive and forget the delinquencies of those 
two years ! If only the circle of his friends would not nar- 
row so pitifully. 

Friends! Did he possess a single one? William Leth- 
ers and his wife were still tolerant of him; but how long 
would it last? On a certain December day just before 
Christmas, Charlie had to face the hard fact that only three 
shops in Ridingdale were open to him — Colpington’s, the 
chemist’s, Miss Rippell’s, and William Lethers.’ And of 
these three only one — the dogger’s — was of much ad- 
vantage. Colpington was a man of uncertain temper, and 
though it was not Charlie’s fault that the chemist’s offer to 


THE LOAFER OF LOAFERS 


19 


work had been refused, the boy was now very shy of enter- 
ing the shop. 

Miss Rippell was kind, but then her shop was nearly al- 
ways haunted by ladies. His sisters too, he reflected, gave 
the Berlin-wool warehouse as much of their company as it 
could reasonably stand, and both of them strongly objected 
to his presence. 

Shabby! of course he was shabby. Approaching four- 
teen, he was still wearing the clothes of a twelve-year-old 
boy. Not a single new article of dress, saving one pair of 
shoes, had he been able to get since the break-up. “ Not 
fit to be seen,” his sisters told him daily and unnecessarily. 
“ Anyhow, I keep myself clean,” was his retort, and this 
he did. 

When he could possibly avoid it, he would keep clear of 
the very gates of the Armstrong house. It was one thing 
to meet little Freddy by accident, and quite another thing 
to hang about in the hope of getting a stray cake or a 
slice of bread-and-butter. Of late the little chap had 
changed his tactics. If on his way to school he met the 
loafer, he would no longer offer him his nuncheon, as he 
called it ; but at twelve o’clock he would pray that he might 
meet Charlie on his way home. It was in vain that Charlie 
reasoned and remonstrated and finally took care to keep out 
of the child’s way. Freddy regularly saved his morning 
snack, and if it did not reach Charlie’s hands sooner or later 
the donor was not at fault. He was a resourceful and a 
masterly child. For some time past small parcels had 


20 


THE LOAFER OF LOAFERS 


turned up in unexpected places or reached Charlie through 
strange and sometimes unwashed hands. 

“ I don’t want it, Charlie, I really don’t,” Freddy said 
stoutly when Charlie remonstrated. “ Faver says I’m get- 
ting too fat, and muvver stuffs me too much.” 

Charlie laughed. The plump and rosy youngster cer- 
tainly did not look hungry. It was a sturdy, well-fed, 
warmly-clad little figure that stood in the December slush 
and looked up into the loafer’s face. Everything about the 
child spoke of comfort and plenty. Half-enviously, and yet 
with a certain affection, Charlie scanned the child — from 
the tuft of his Glengarry cap to the inch-thick soles of his 
hobnailed highlows. Through Charlie’s thin and broken 
shoes the muddy snow found way at every step. 

“ But you’ll be found out, Freddy, and then — ” 

“ I don’t care. Muvver gives it to me for my very own 
and I can’t — I don’t eat it.” 

“ But your father would be in an awful wax — and you’d 
get whacks — if he knew.” 

“ I don’t care. But he won’t know.” 

“ I shan’t tell him,” laughed Charlie beginning to de- 
molish the mince-pie Freddy had just handed to him. The 
little boy was delighted to see his hero enjoying “a happy 
month ” — as the dainty was called in Ridingdale. 

“ We break up the day after to-morrow,” Freddy said 
gleefully. 

"Jolly! ” responded Charlie, but his face fell a little. 

“ But you’ve got to have twelve happy months, Charlie 


THE LOAFER OF LOAFERS 


21 


I shall beg 'em of mother. Not all at once, but one now 
and then. And if I don’t meet you down town I’ll put ’em 
in that little place behind your gate — I mean the yard gate. 
You know. Where I put that little pork-pie yesterday.” 

“ Don’t, Freddy! You’ll be getting into a row. I don’t 
want you to be licked through me. I should be miserable if 
I thought you were being whipped. It’s awfully good of 
you; but don’t.” 

“ O, it’s all right,” said the youngster sturdily. “ I don’t 
care. Are you going home to dinner now, Charlie? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Charlie with some hesitation. There 
would be bread and tea at one o’clock, he knew, and not 
nearly enough bread. What his mother called a remittance 
had not been received from Mr. Chittywick for several 
weeks. Charlie doubted if there was fire enough to-day 
to boil the kettle. He had left his mother wrapped in a 
blanket and reading a novel. 

“ Why don’t you put your big coat on ? ” Freddy asked,, 
for Charlie was shivering. 

“ Won’t go on. Split right up the back first time I tried 
it this winter. I’m all right though. Ta-ta, Freddy! 
Thanks muchly for the pie. It’s mighty good!” 

To Charlie, the mere thought of Christmas was an agony. 
Last year he had helped at the grocer’s, had enjoyed 
the bustle of the week preceding the great feast, had earned 
a little money and much tuck. This year, Harwood’s was 
closed to him; he scarcely dared to stop and examine the 
holly-decked, raisin-spread window. It was the same at the 


22 


THE LOAFER OF LOAFERS 


confectioner’s — perhaps worse, for the shopman actually 
kept a handy cane for the chastisement of undesirable boy- 
loafers about the window, and the proprietor himself — well, 
Charlie knew something of the strength of the confection- 
er’s arm. There were two bakers in High Street, and even 
when Charlie approached them, money in hand, for the 
loaf that barely kept his mother and sisters from starvation 
— once he was served these sellers of bread showed an 
unblushing anxiety to see him off the premises. 

Last Christmas Day, he and his mother and sisters had 
dined at Miss Rippell’s : he wondered much if she would ask 
them again this year. Certainly, he was not fit to go where 
there was company. His boots would have been refused 
by a tramp. If only he could get a pair of boots, he told 
himself, he would run away. There must be something for 
a boy to do somewhere in the world — in some place where 
he was not known. But in his present condition every step 
out of doors was painful, and running away impossible. 

A few days before Christmas he caught a violent cold. 
He was glad of the^ excuse for staying in bed : between 
the blankets he could at least keep warm. The very sight 
of High Street, of the shops, of the errand-boys, of the 
cheery bustle of approaching Christmas, had become mad- 
dening. He had been too hungry, to$ weak, too spiritless, 
to return the chaff of those stout burly lads who were carry- 
ing about the baskets of good things to decent householders. 
He would gladly have changed places with any one of these 
velveteen-coated, clog-shod fellows. How warm and jolly 


THE LOAFER OF LOAFERS 


23 


they looked ! Snow and slush could not penetrate the solid 
wood and thick leather that protected their feet; winter 
winds were defied by overcoats of frieze and comforters of 
scarlet wool. 

Poor Charlie! He was a prodigal indeed, for no man 
would hire him. A prodigal, though, through being the 
son of a prodigal. Want had come to him through no fault 
of his own. Only one thing had he himself squandered — 
his own reputation. This precious commodity he had reck- 
lessly flung away. “ Liar and thief ” were the words that 
now sprang readily to the lips of men with whom he had 
once been a favourite. He was of course handicapped by 
being a son of his father — a man known throughout the 
Dale as a swindler and a “ dead-nab ; ” yet there were God- 
fearing men, even in the High Street, who did not readily 
blame the son for his father’s sins. Charlie himself had 
sinned and had been found out. Sometimes in his misery 
and his loneliness he told himself that if the school had suc- 
ceeded, if his father had gone on giving much good custom 
to the local shops, he, Charlie Chittywick, would still have 
been the favourite of Ridingdale tradesmen. In this he 
did some of them an injustice. When his father’s bank- 
ruptcy came about, most of the creditors remained friendly 
with the debtor’s son. The one exception was Mr. Arm- 
strong. 

Up to the age of twelve there had been no more popular 
boy in Ridingdale than Charlie Chittywick. It was not 
merely that he was good-looking, well-mannered, and well- 


THE LOAFER OF LOAFERS 


24 

dressed ; he was pleasant to deal with — respectful and intel- 
ligent — good-humoured and affable — the kind of boy that 
makes friends and keeps them. 

But then — up to that time he had never known what it 
was to be hungry. His life had been a pleasant one. The 
boys of his father’s school were devoted to him. Younger 
than some of them, none could excel him either in class or 
play-ground. 

Not quite two years had brought about this appalling 
difference. As he lay in bed on Christmas Eve he reflected 
that he had only two friends left in the whole world — the 
dogger next door and a little child of seven and a half! 
And the latter was the son of his father’s — of his own — 
deadliest enemy! 


CHAPTER III. 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE. 

On a certain January night when snow lay on the ground, 
William was just about to shut up shop and retire to his 
easy-chair when Charlie Chittywick suddenly appeared in 
the doorway. Something in the lad’s face startled Billy 
Lethers. 

“ Whatever is the matter, Master Charlie ? ” 

The boy sauntered to the counter and sat down. 

“ Look here, Mr. Lethers, I want you to do me a favour. 
You are about the only friend I’ve got in the world, and I’ll 
never forget your kindness to me — I might say to us. You 
are always doing us favours and I’m ashamed to ask you 
for anything for myself, but I’ll pay you back in a week or 
two — I will indeed. I want you to let me have a pair of 
clogs on trust. 

“ What, for yourself, Master Charlie?” asked the 
amazed William. 

“ Yes, for myself. I’m sick and tired of this kind of 
sham life we are leading at home and I simply can’t stand it 
any longer. I’m going to Hardlow to-morrow morning to 
try and get on at the factory there.” 

“ You’ll niver do no sich thing — surely!” William ex- 
claimed. 


25 


26 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


“ But I will !” the lad declared fiercely. “I must. 
We’re pretty nearly starving, and my sisters won’t do any- 
thing. Father has come home with next to nothing and 
we’re in debt all over the place. I can tell you what I 
wouldn’t tell anybody else. Somebody must do something. 
Somebody’s got to make a move. My mother can't do 
anything. I’m fourteen now, and I’m quite able to work. 
If I can only keep myself it will be one less at home.” 

“ But you’ll niver go t’ factory, my lad,” argued William. 

“ It’s the only thing I can do. I’ve got no education. 
I’m far more ignorant than your sons, Mr. Lethers, yet they 
don’t pretend to be educated. I couldn’t write a decent 
letter in English, let alone any other language, to save my 
life. In an office I should be a mere dummy even if any- 
body would take me on. I tried Lawyer South the other 
day, but he put me off — simply because he saw that my 
handwriting was vile. No, Mr. Lethers, I’m determined to 
go to the factory, and if you’ll let me have a pair of clogs 
I’ll be awfully grateful. What is more, I’ll pay you for 
them as soon as ever I can.” 

“ But you’ve niver wore sich things i’ your life,” said 
William. 

“ No, and more’s the pity. My grandfather never wore 
anything else, and my father wore them when he was a lad. 
Why shouldn’t I? We’re not gentle-folk, Mr. Lethers: 
you know that very well. And if we were, I don’t see why 
we should not work — why we should live on others.” 

William’s mind was divided between amazement and ad- 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


27 


miration. He had always liked Charley, and Jane had 
always said he was “ the best o’ the bunch ; ” but this sud- 
den resolution, this determined revolt against the family 
pride, was to be met with caution. 

“ Of coorse, my lad, you shall ’ave a pair o’ clogs if you 
want ’em/’ William said. “ But you mun think well what 
you’re doin’. You munna act in a ’urry. I doubt me your 
mother and sisters ’ud never stand the sight o’ ye i’ clogs. 
An’ as for workin’ at t’ factory — ” 

“ Look here, Mr. Lethers ! ” the lad interrupted passion- 
ately, “ if I don’t get work I shall do something bad. I 
can feel it in me. I shall do something that will make 
them ashamed of me and of themselves, something that will 
break my mother’s heart. You’re a good man and I can 
trust you as I would a priest. Well, I don’t mind confes- 
sing to you that I very nearly stole a pair of boots last 
night. They were hanging outside Rompton’s shop and I 
saw they were just my size. There was nobody about and 
I could have hooked them easily. I wanted them so very 
badly. Look at the state I’m in, and all this snow on the 
ground ! ” he exclaimed showing two worn and broken 
shoes saturated with wet. “ Look at my clothes too ! 
This is the only suit I’ve got, and I brush it till I’m afraid 
it’ll fall to bits. Sleeves and trousers both a couple of 
inches short ! My shirt is in rags and my socks are full of 
holes. My sisters are too busy, or too something, to mend 
’em. What can I do! I can’t help growing, can I? I 
can’t help being a boy and getting hungry — ” 


28 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


Whether it was William’s kind look or gesture, or 
whether it was that nerve failure that comes from want 
of food, the voluble lad suddenly broke down and began to 
sob piteously. 

William immediately moved towards the parlour-door. 

“Got owt ’ot for supper, my lass?” he asked his wife. 
Jane was in the kitchen beyond, but the hiss of frying 
sausages answered him. However, he stepped forward, 
and in a few words told her what was happening in the 
shop. 

“ I alus said that lad was well nigh clammed,” she whis- 
pered. “ Let him come in and fill his belly — poor fellow ! 
I’ll send Jack for another half-pound. We can be goin’ 
on wi’ these ’ere.” 

William hurried back to the shop. 

“ Come an’ ’ave a bit o’ supper, Master Charlie,” he said 
soothingly. “ No, don’t say another word till you’ve ’ad 
summat to eat. We’ll talk things o’er a bit arter that. 
Nay, don’t yer cry, my lad! That wunna ’elp matters.” 
William put his hand caressingly on the boy’s shoulder. 
The tears burst forth afresh. 

“ How I wish,” the lad sobbed, “ I had been your son. 
Or even your apprentice. I’d be your errand-lad if you’d 
let me — I would really.” And the grateful lad seized Wil- 
liam’s hand and pressed it between his own cold palms. 

“ There — there ! Now, dry your eyes, my lad ! Missis 
is a waitin’ for us. So is t’ sausages. ’Ot sausages, Mas- 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


29 


ter Charlie! Just the things for a night like this — eh? 
You’ll feel better arter a bit o’ supper.” 

Very willingly, in spite of his tear-stained face, did Char- 
lie suffer himself to be led to the parlour. The shop was 
always filled with a pleasant healthy odour of wood and 
leather, but the opening of the parlour-door brought to the 
nostrils of the hungry boy a far more savoury and hearten- 
ing smell. 

Jane’s heart was moved to pity as she looked at the lad’s 
pinched face and tear-marked cheeks. “ You’re ’arf per- 
ished, child,” she said, taking his hand and rubbing it be- 
tween her own. “ An’ I’ll be bound your feet’s as wet 
as they can be — aren’t they now ? ” 

“ They are, indeed, Mrs. Lethers,” he admitted. “ But 
please don’t bother about me. I’m used to wet feet.” 

“ Yes,” answered Jane, “ and so is t’ churchyard. Come 
in t’ kitchen a minute. I’ve got some clean socks a airin/ 
and you can ’ave Jack’s slippers.” 

“ I’d rather have his clogs if you don’t mind, Mrs. Leth- 
ers,” said the boy with a certain earnestness that made her 
look at him curiously. “ I’m going to have a pair of my 
own, and I’d like to get used to them.” 

“ I’ll get ’em for you now,” William said going back into 
the shop and returning with two or three pairs slung over 
his arm. “ This ’ll be t’ pair I’m thinkin’,” he said as he 
knelt down before the lad who had already changed his 
sopping socks. “ An’ you stick to them stockings, Master 


30 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


Charlie. Missis ’ll be delighted. They’re thick and warm, 
and our lads ’ave got ’eaps of ’em.” 

“ You are good ! ” the boy ejaculated, as he stood up 
with one foot in the new clog, and declared that it fitted 
beautifully. “ How nice they feel ! ” he exclaimed, when 
he had put on the other one and walked the length of 
the kitchen. “ They make you feel fit for anything ! I 
thought they’d be ever so heavy, but they’re not ! ” 

“ Things isn’t allis what they looks like,” laughed Wil- 
liam. “ You’re not the fust as ’as bin deceived about t’ 
weight of ’em, my lad. But come and ’ave thee supper! 
I’m thinkin’ them sausages is as good as they looks ! ” 

In his unwonted footgear Charlie stepped gingerly into 
the little parlour and took his seat at the table. He could 
have cried again for sheer happiness. The two sons of the 
house and an apprentice — another apprentice boarded with 
his own friends — came in from the workshop at the back, 
the place where all the making and mending went on, and 
the plentiful supper became a merry meal. 

What could be more hearty, more genuine and honest, 
than all this? Charlie asked himself again and again. 
What would he give to be one of William’s apprentices? 
There was no room for sham in a life of this sort. There 
was no affectation, no pretension, no dishonesty. And 
there was love — parental and filial love ! 

Charlie knew that neither in height nor weight was he 
what a boy of his years should be. He contrasted himself 
with Jack Lethers who was also fourteen. Why Jack, was 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


3i 


a young giant compared with himself ! And this in spite of 
Jack’s close application to his father’s trade and the con- 
fined atmosphere of a shop! How happy he and his 
brother looked and how proud of them were Jane and 
William Lethers. What good lads they were, too ! — every- 
body said it. Regular at Mass, regular at their duties. 
Working all day — playing a little when night came — rest- 
ing on Sundays and holidays. Was it not a life that any 
boy or man might be glad and proud to live! 

The very room they were sitting in glowed with a homely 
cheeriness. It was not merely the sight of that great dish 
of sausages, or the bed of mashed potatoes upon which 
they lay, the half-stone loaf whose proportions seemed to 
defy the knife of the hungriest boy that ever lived, or the 
huge segment of cheese, fresh from a Dale farmhouse, that 
looked as if it never could grow less — though to a badly- fed 
lad like Charlie Chittywick such a table could not but be a 
grateful sight ; but a quite undefinable and utterly indescrib- 
able look of home was upon the whole establishment. In 
the coloured picture of little Red Ridinghood and that of 
the robin redbreast in the holly bush there was a friendli- 
ness that could be felt. The very fire seemed to burn as 
though it were enjoying its own activity and rejoicing in 
its own heat. Both William and Jane were at this time in 
the prime of life, and though she always held in reserve a 
certain asperity of tongue and severity of manner, she was 
the perfect housewife and a most devoted mother. Wil- 
liam was — just William. His character through life had 


32 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


been uniformly kind and gentle. He had brought with him 
into the world a good heart, and taking this natural gift — 
not less the gift of God, remember, because it was natural — 
grace had worked upon it, purified and elevated it. There 
are no such things as faultless men in this world, therefore 
he was not faultless: but if charity covers a multitude of 
sins it may very well conceal natural imperfections and 
faults of character. 

When the meal was over, William took his pipe and 
with the lads retired to the warm and well-lighted workshop 
at the back, while Mrs. Lethers cleared the table and made 
the cosy parlour a few degrees more cosy. There was a 
bagatelle-board, and a variety of indoor games. Jack 
treated the visitor to a flute solo or two — “ Wait for the 
waggon and we’ll all take a ride,” “ Nellie Bly,” and “ Wil- 
lie we have missed you.” William played a game of crib- 
bage with Charlie — interspersed with many encouraging re- 
marks to the musician. But when the short game was 
over, host and guest went back to the parlour leaving the 
lads to their music and play. For William and Charlie had 
business to discuss. 

Sitting in front of the fire, with Jane sewing on one side 
of the hearth and William smoking on the other, Charlie 
told them of his plans. 

“ Things are getting worse and worse at home,” he said. 
“ Father talks of throwing up his present job and going in 
for some dry goods agency. Mother is in very bad health 
and this cold weather tries her awfully. Lavinia has got 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


33 


only two music pupils, and one of them is to stop coming 
next week. Maud is doing something in the needlework 
line for Miss Rippell, but there is a heap of Maud’s things 
lying on Miss Rippell’s counter. They don’t sell, and Miss 
Rippell can’t afford to pay for them till she sells them. So 
you see, Mrs. Lethers, I must, I really must do something. 
Colpington would have taken me a month or two ago as 
shop-boy, and I would have gone like a shot only mother 
cried and carried on so and said I was determined to dis- 
grace the family. Just as if it could be disgraced more 
than it is ! ” 

“Why Colpington would a learnt you t’ business,” said 
Mrs. Lethers. “ An’ surely nowt could be more respectable 
than a druggist’s shop ! ” 

“ Aye,” put in William, “ that’d a’ bin t’ very thing for 
you, lad. A sight better and nicer than t’ factory.” 

“ Yes, I know,” said the boy a little bitterly. “ But I’ve 
lost my chance. He’s got young Winfield now. He said 
he’d teach me everything and help me a bit with my Latin 
of a night. Mr. Colpington is quite an educated man, you 
know. It was just the very thing. I could have been a 
chemist’s assistant at any rate, even if I had never been 
able to set up in business. But it’s no use thinking of it 
now. And it would be the same if I could get a similar job 
in any other shop. Mother wouldn’t let me take it. Poor 
mother! I don’t want to hurt her, but I must. If I lived 
at Hardlow, perhaps she wouldn’t feel it as much. They’d 
give me eight shillings a week to begin with and I should 


34 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


soon be getting ten. I've talked it over with a Hardlow 
lad. He says they want fresh hands just now. And you 
see my grandfather worked there all his life: I don’t think 
they’d refuse me.” 

The more they discussed the matter the more evident it 
became both to Jane and William that, for the present at 
any rate, Charlie’s only chance of getting work was at the 
factory. They both, for several reasons, regretted it. As 
for the boy himself, it was clear that he had fully made up 
his mind. Sitting there in front of the fire he stretched 
out his legs and looked smilingly and admiringly upon his 
new clogs. A fool would have told him that they were the 
badge of servitude- — the weighty fetters of slavery; that 
from the moment he appeared in public shod with wood and 
iron he would lose caste, and take up an inferior and de- 
spised position for evermore. 

Some twelve or fourteen years later a fool did say this 
- — not to, but within the hearing of the newly-arrived Squire 
of Ridingdale and his wife. They had just been married, 
had just taken possession of the Hall, and they were not 
fools. “ If we are blessed with children, my darling,” said 
the husband, “ shall we try to teach the Dale a lesson ? ” 
“ By all means, dear,” Mrs. Ridingdale answered. They 
taught the Dale many lessons subsequently; but even if 
they had been at the Hall at this period, it may be doubted 
if the Chittywicks would have profited by the example of 
the Squire and his wife. “ Though thou shouldst bray a 
fool in the mortar, as when a pestle striketh upon sodden 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


35 


barley, his folly would not be taken from him ” — says the 
inspired Book. 

Charlie was only a boy of fourteen, but he was no fool. 
To him that pair of clogs was the symbol of honest labour 
and noble effort. As he felt the grip of the stout leather on 
his ankles and tapped the solid sole of wood and iron on the 
hearthrug, he respected himself as he had never done before. 
The clog had never been the badge of servitude in the 
Dale, nor had it ever been the emblem of poverty. But if 
it had been both Charlie would have worn it. There are 
things infinitely worse than either poverty or servitude. 

“ When did you think of starting, Master Charlie? ” Wil- 
liam asked. 

“ To-morrow morning, Mr. Lethers,” the boy answered 
promptly. “ I shall get up early and try to be at the fac- 
tory by nine o’clock. The office opens then. I shan’t say 
anything to mother until things are settled. You see, it’s 
of no use. And of course I shan’t tell my sisters. I know 
I’m doing the right thing. If I can lodge with my grand- 
mother at Hardlow so much the better.” 

“ You’d niver be able to come ’ome ivery neet, child,” 
said Mrs. Lethers. 

“ I think I could — later on. But that depends on mother. 
When the days get longer I could manage it. I can walk 
it in an hour — it’s hardly four miles. But if I once begin 
to work at the factory I fancy they won’t want me to go 
home, except now and then.” 

“ What’ll your father say? ” William inquired. 


36 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


“O, he won’t mind. In fact he’ll be glad — especially if 
I don’t bother him about it. He was very angry with my 
mother for not letting me go to Colpington’s. I know he 
wants me to work, and he doesn’t particularly care what 
I do.” 

Jane and William looked at one another in astonishment. 
It seemed an extraordinary state of things. Yet they knew 
very well the kind of man Mr. Chittywick was. He was 
seldom at home, and even if he came to Ridingdale dor 
a week end, he spent most of his time in the bar-room of 
“ The Arms.” 

The grandmother Charlie had referred to was his father’s 
mother. Completely ignored by Mrs. Chittywick and her 
daughters, and seldom visited by her own son, Charlie never 
found himself in the neighborhood of Hardlow without 
paying her a call. For years she had been a widow, living 
by herself in a little cottage of her own. Very bitter to- 
wards her son’s wife and daughters, she doated upon Char- 
lie, and the hope that she might have a spare bed-room and 
receive him as a lodger had greatly helped him in the mak- 
ing of his resolution. Like her son, she was a Protestant. 

It has been said that Jane and William Lethers regretted 
the necessity of Charlie’s going to Hardlow. They were 
sorry of course that a boy with his up-bringing should be 
compelled to work in a factory; but what they most re- 
gretted was the fact that at Hardlow there was neither 
church nor priest. As we have said, even at Ridingdale 
there was not at this time a resident priest, for we are deal- 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


37 


in g with a period long anterior to the coming of Father 
Horbury. Still the Catholics of the Dale could always rely 
on Sunday Mass. 

Whatever knowledge of his religion Charlie had he had 
picked up for himself — chiefly in conversation with the 
Lethers.’ Beyond a few prayers, his mother had taught 
him nothing. He had several times been to confession, 
but he had not made his First Communion. William knew 
that his attendance at Sunday Mass had been very irregular 
— as was that of Mrs. Chittywick and her daughters. Lat- 
terly, however, at William’s suggestion, the boy had roused 
himself early on Sunday morning and, disregarding the 
shabbiness of his clothes, had stolen out of the sleeping 
house to be present at the first Mass. The attendance of 
the ladies at late Mass depended entirely upon the condition 
of their wardrobe. 

Under these circumstances, Jane and William were nat- 
urally anxious about the lad’s spiritual welfare. However, 
for the present they had to put the question by. Mrs. Leth- 
ers was to-night keenly concerned in his immediate temporal 
needs. The thin cotton socks Charlie had taken off were 
so full of holes that she had thrown them away. Her 
motherly heart and brain were at work trying to devise 
some scheme for finding out the real state of his belongings. 
She felt morally certain that he had scarcely a shirt to his 
back. That he only possessed one suit of clothes she 
knew, and this did not include an overcoat. Though they 
had reached mid-winter he was still wearing a straw hat. 


38 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


But Jane had many of the delicate instincts of a true 
gentlewoman and she did not like to put to the boy ques- 
tions that reflected upon his home life. Calling her hus- 
band out of the room she suggested that he should in the 
course of a private chat with Charlie find out there and 
then what were the lad’s greatest needs. William was of 
course to be very discreet, not to say diplomatic. 

The good Yorkshireman was not skilled in the art of 
finesse, but his subsequent report to Jane in the privacy of 
the back kitchen sent her straight upstairs to the opening 
of drawers, the inspection of flannel shirts and woolen 
socks. 

Nine o’clock struck and the lads came in from the shop. 
Mrs. Lethers came downstairs and immediately took up a 
big old copy of the Garden of the Soul. The oldest lad 
read night prayers, and Charlie joined in them heartily and 
thankfully. When the boys had gone to bed Charlie felt 
that he ought to say good-night. But Mrs. Lethers had 
not done with him. 

He was to breakfast with them to-morrow morning, she 
said, before he started. If he didn’t mind carrying it she 
would have a carpet-bag packed with a few — she hesitated 
but called them “ useful things.” He needn’t bring any- 
thing from home unless he liked. She hinted that the bulk 
of his linen might be at the wash. 

Charlie blushingly expressed his gratitude. He felt sure 
that she knew his woeful lack of everything necessary. 
To-morrow he would have to take off his coat, and even 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


39 


the sleeves of the shirt he had on were in tatters. He asked 
that he might leave his clogs with them that night, as he 
did not want to excite the suspicion of his mother and 
sisters. 

When he got home he found that his mother had retired 
for the night. His sisters were in the drawing-room, each 
of them deep in a novel. They scarcely looked up when 
he entered, but when he turned to leave the room and 
go to bed he paused for a moment to remark : “ I'm 

going over to Hardlow to-morrow morning. I’ll get some 
breakfast before I start. Shan’t be back for dinner. May 
sleep at grandmother’s to-morrow night. I shall see. 
Good-night.” 

Both sisters were so absorbed with the entangled love 
affairs of a romantic countess that, though each looked up 
for a moment to say good-night, neither of them paid much 
attention to what Charlie said. For several years he had 
led his own life — attending no school since the break-up 
of his father’s “ seminary ” — making now and then an at- 
tempt to study by himself, but going and coming just as 
he pleased and showing a fine disregard for the irregular 
meal-times of an irregular household. In fine weather he 
would often start out in the early morning after taking a 
cup of milk, with a big hunch of bread in one pocket and a 
book in the other, and only return home at sunset. He had 
long ago been made to realize that the less he “ bothered ” 
his mother and sisters and the oftener he was away from 
home, the better pleased they were. Where he went, and 


40 


A DETERMINED RESOLVE 


what he did, they rarely inquired. So long as he did not 
disgrace the family by consorting with “ clog-people,” they 
were satisfied. 


CHAPTER IV. 


A NEW HAND. 

Supper the night before had been an ample and a merry 
meal, but breakfast the next morning was fully equal to it. 
And equal to the breakfast was Charlie. The occasion was 
a momentous one, and Mrs. Lethers had made up her mind 
that it demanded a monumental meal. 

It was a little after half-past seven when Charlie started 
for Hardlow — a raw morning and a dark one. His mother 
and sisters would not rise for another hour or two. 

William had warned him that his first long walk in a 
new pair of clogs might cause him discomfort, and that he 
had better give himself plenty of time. 

" Ah, Mr. Lethers, if you only knew the misery of walk- 
ing about in all this snow and slush with a pair of shoes 
that let in water at every step — but, of course, you don’t. I 
shall soon get used to the clogs, and I'm only too thankful 
to have them. Besides, Mrs. Lethers has made me put on a 
pair of lambs wool socks, and I feel as if I were walking in 
velvet." 

Mrs. Lethers would not hear of his starting without an 
overcoat, and the carpet-bag she handed him at the last 
moment bulged with — he knew not what. And in her 
presence he could not open it. 

41 


42 


A NEW HAND 


In spite of the gloom of the morning he felt boisterously 
happy. He was warm without and within, and O, the 
difference it made ! In trying to thank his benefactors for 
their goodness to him he had not been able to keep back his 
tears, and he had given Mrs. Lethers the parting kiss that 
he would fain have bestowed upon his own mother; but 
now that he was on the road he could have danced and 
shouted like a newly-emancipated slave. He felt half sorry 
that the state of the ground deadened the click-clack of his 
clogs; such a sound would have been music to him in his 
present mood. And if all Ridingdale had assembled to 
watch his departure he would have rejoiced. One or two- 
errand-lads passed him on their way and, to his delight, 
stopped to eye him curiously. Ridingdale people would 
soon know what he had done. 

At five minutes past nine by the office-clock another 
person was eying Charlie very curiously — the manager of 
the factory. 

“ You don’t look over-strong,” Mr. Paleworthy was say- 
ing. 

“ Pm stronger than I look, sir,” Charlie answered. 

“ Have you had any illness lately ? ” 

“ Only a bad cold, sir, and it’s better now.” 

Mr. Paleworthy looked the lad over — from his thin pale 
face crowned with brown curly locks, to the brass-tipped 
toes of his small clogs. 

“ You are rather short for fourteen.” 

“ I shall grow, sir,” said Charlie. 


A NEW HAND 


43 


The man laughed good-naturedly. 

“ And you say you are the grandson of old George 
Chittywick who worked for us so many years?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, he was a very good servant. I believe he came 
here when the factory was first started — nearly sixty years 
ago ! ” 

The manager went on putting questions to Charlie. The 
boy blushed when he was asked what his father did. The 
fact was that the manager was a little puzzled. The lad 
standing before him spoke nicely and had a refined face, and 
he was wondering that such a boy should be willing to 
become a factory-hand. However, the entrance of the 
letter-bag brought the interview to an end. 

“ Just show this boy the way into the factory,” he said to 
the clerk who had brought the bag. “ Go and see the 
foreman, my lad,” turning to Charlie. “ They are pretty 
busy just now and he is sure to have a job for you.” 

The astonishment of Grandmother Chittywick when, a 
little after one o’clock that same day, Charlie knocked at 
her door, was considerable. But when he told her that he 
had got work at the factory, and called her attention to his 
unmistakable footgear, she declared that she didn’t know 
whether she was standing on her head or her heels. As a 
matter of fact she had dropped down into the nearest chair 
and looked “ fair moidered,” as she afterwards expressed it. 
Charlie laughed and opened Mrs. Lethers’ bag. As he 


44 


A NEW HAND 


expected, it contained a dinner — and much more. It 
had two compartments, and one was filled with shirts and 
socks. In the other there was a beefsteak pie, a big wedge 
of cheese, half a loaf of bread and some tea and sugar. 
With great glee he placed these things on the table saying 
that if grandmother didn’t mind he’d like to have his dinner. 
Then Mrs. Chittywick literally rose to the occasion. 

It was a clean and cosy cottage, and there was a good fire 
burning. She put the pie in the oven to let it warm 
through, and in a very few minutes Charlie sat down to a 
comfortable dinner. When she realized that her grandson 
wanted to become her lodger, she wept for joy. 

Of course she had a spare bed-room, she said. And 
what a lucky thing it was she had refused to let it only the 
week before, because she had heard that the man who 
wanted it was often in drink. But what did his mother 
think of it all, and what would his sisters say? 

The necessity of being back at the factory by two o’clock 
had been duly impressed upon Charlie by the foreman, and 
long before the time, he was ready to start. But granny 
reminded him that he was well within five minutes’ walk of 
the ponderous gate that opened and shut with such severe 
regularity. 

Light and quite mechanical was the job that had been 
given him, making very little demand either upon brain or 
muscle. But it was tiring and monotonous, and the inces- 
sant rattle of machinery sounded in his ears long after six 
o’clock brought the “ loosing time.” The new life was a 


A NEW HAND 


45 


big change for him in every particular. His old Riding- 
dale existence had been almost Bohemian. Lounging had 
become a second nature to him; he had no duties, no fixed 
hour for study, no one to talk to unless he killed a little 
time, as he frequently did, at the counter of Miss Rippell 
or that of Colpington the chemist. An occasional ride in 
the butcher’s or baker’s cart made an event for him. In- 
deed, the baker’s cart had a fascination for him that he 
would have been ashamed to admit, though latterly and for 
good reasons, he had avoided it. 

Poor Charlie! his conscience sadly needed overhauling. 
The temptation to steal the boots had been a very strong 
one, and when he thought of it he turned hot and cold all 
over : but this was rather at the realization of almost certain 
detection and the consequent punishment and disgrace. It 
was not many weeks since a lad of his own age had stolen a 
pair, and Charlie had stood near the lock-up door with a 
group of idlers to watch the young culprit being put into the 
cart that stood waiting to convey him to gaol. The scene 
had made a great impression upon Charlie, for just as the 
policeman was getting into the cart a woman had run up 
sobbing bitterly. She had tried to get into the conveyance, 
but they would not let her. Then her son had leant over 
the side to kiss her, telling her not to., cry and that he 
would be back again in a month. But the cart drove off 
with a sobbing prisoner and left behind it a heart-broken 
mother. This, rather than the fear of offending God, had 


46 


A NEW HAND 


helped Charlie to overcome the most violent temptation he 
could remember. 

For if the truth must be told his petty thefts had become 
habitual and he had stolen eatables with very little compunc- 
tion. Apples and fruit he regarded as quite fair game; 
though more than once he had been caught and made to 
writhe under the lash of a horse-whip. He had become 
quite dexterous in the “ hooking,” as he would have called 
it, of buns and pies and tarts, and any edible flotsam and 
jetsam that came in his way. In the course of a long ride 
in the Dale delivering bread, the baker discovered that 
Charlie had by degrees eaten a small loaf. The man said 
very little. He guessed that the lad was tortured with 
hunger, but he did not like pilfering and thought it better 
to say so. Charlie was ashamed at being found out, just 
as he would have been ashamed to ask for bread; but 
thanks to the callous and almost criminal neglect of his 
parents, his moral sense, in this particular matter at least, 
was considerably blunted. 

For since the time his father had given up keeping school, 
Charlie had never known what it was to be regularly and 
properly fed. Mr. Chittywick had not starved the bodies of 
his boarders, whatever may have been lacking in the mental 
nutriment doled out to them. Indeed if any parent had 
wanted a school wherein his boys might be well fed and 
permitted the maximum of play with the minimum of work, 
nothing could have been better than Mr. Chittywick’s 
academy. But even in the sixties there were fathers and 


A NEW HAND 


47 


mothers who did not appreciate an establishment of this 
kind. 

That Charlie had reached his teens without becoming the 
inmate of a gaol or a reformatory was little less than a 
miracle. He belonged to a criminal class quite as truly and 
really as a burglar’s apprentice. Ever since their marriage 
his parents had lived by fraud. In spite of his pretensions, 
no honest man would employ Mr. Chittywick. Whatever 
was shady in the way of business attracted him, whether 
wine or jewellery or patent medicines. Yet somehow he 
maintained a decent personal appearance, and he had more 
than once been mistaken for a clergyman. His silk hat was 
always glossy, his frock coat was well-fitting and carefully 
brushed. As he walked down the High Street and entered 
his half-furnished house, he held his head much higher 
than any of the well-to-do tradesmen whose shops he de- 
spised, but with whom he condescended to drink in the 
sacred seclusion of the bar-room of “ The Arms.” 

“ I have never once seen Chittywick really drunk,” said 
Colpington to his neighbour one night as they were leaving 
the bar-room. “ No,” said the latter, “ and you can’t hon- 
estly say that you’ve ever seen him sober.” 


CHAPTER V. 


THE WEEK END. 

When Saturday noonday came Charlie could scarcely 
contain himself for sheer delight. He had money in his 
pocket, money that he had earned. He possessed six shil- 
lings, and some coppers that he was too overjoyed to 
count — five or six, he thought, if not more. Some of the 
lads with whom he worked lingered about the yard. They 
had small debts to discharge or receive, appointments to 
make or differences to arrange. Charlie ran at full speed 
to his grandmother’s cottage, making much clog-music on 
the asphalted pavement. 

A holiday of a day and a half — the half being a generous 
one! Go to Ridingdale of course he must and would. 
They should at any rate have the opportunity of seeing 
him at home, and he wanted much to see his mother and 
Mr. and Mrs. Lethers. Whether under the circumstances 
his mother would ask him to stay with her until Monday 
morning, at any rate until Sunday night, remained to be 
seen. He did not think she would, but she should have the 
chance. 

But first of all he was anxious to discharge his debt to 
his grandmother. He felt that if he gave her all he had 
earned he would still owe her something; but then, next 


THE WEEK END 


49 


week would be a full one and eight shillings would be due to 
him. To his surprise, she would take nothing on the pres- 
ent occasion. Next week, she said, they would see about it. 
It was a poor thing if she couldn’t take in her own grand- 
son for a week or two, she declared, and as for food — why 
he’d brought half a week’s victuals with him. She re- 
minded him that the cottage was her own, so that she had 
no rent to pay, and the factory firm allowed her a pension 
that was quite enough for her keep. Moreover, she whis- 
pered, her husband had been a saving man and hadn’t left 
her destitute. 

All this astonished the boy very much. He had always 
supposed that she was poor and that one reason why his 
father so seldom visited her was that he had nothing to give 
her. However, Charlie argued the point of board and 
lodging at length. He could not think of living upon her, 
he declared, and it would not be right. To pacify him she 
said he should pay for his board — next week, but that if she 
charged him anything for his lodging she would not be able 
to sleep comfortably in her bed. She reminded him that he 
was in debt for his clogs, and that he sadly wanted a new 
suit of clothes. This he could not deny. The suit of 
shiny black he was wearing was not at all the thing for fac- 
tory wear, and he had already made up his mind to get a 
pair of cord trowsers as soon as ever he could. More- 
over, he had no boots. A Sunday suit was one of those 
things that seemed to belong to the remote future. 

Starting out for Ridingdale after he had had his dinner 


50 


THE WEEK END 


he could not but speculate as to the kind of reception he 
would receive at home. He had written to his mother a 
firm but affectionate letter the very first night he spent at 
Hardlow, but he had received no answer to it. As a mat- 
ter of fact, news of his working at the factory had reached 
Ridingdale before the letter, and the house of Chittywick 
had been filled with consternation, hysterics, and sal volatile. 
The Miss Chittywicks had heard a fearful report in Miss 
Rippell’s shop. Miss Rippell’s errand-boy had been told 
by another errand-boy that Charlie Chittywick had been 
seen that very morning in a pair of clogs! This was the 
form of the first rumour on the Tuesday afternoon, and the 
two Miss Chittywicks had to retire to Miss Rippell’s par- 
lour for brandy and water. The boy told a mate of his 
afterwards that “ their screeches was awful.” A little 
later in the afternoon a man from Hardlow factory came 
to the shop and being questioned by Miss Rippell said that 
a little chap named Chittywick has been taken on that very 
morning. The man said you couldn’t make a mistake 
about a name like Chittywick and that he remembered the 
lad’s grandfather very well. After this it became Miss 
Rippell’s painful duty to put on her bonnet and hasten to 
break the awful news to Mrs. Chittywick. 

It had been Charlie’s intention to go home before calling 
on Mr. Lethers, but as he passed the shop William was 
just letting out a customer. Charlie rushed at William and 
seized his hand. 

“ Aye, but I’m reet glad to say thee, my lad ! ” exclaimed 


THE WEEK END 


5i 


the good dogger. “ So’ll Jane be. An’ ’ow ast-a bin get- 
tin’ on like ? ” 

Charlie poured himself out in a torrent of enthusiastic 
words — winding up by declaring that it was just stunning. 

“ But before I say any more, Mr. Lethers,” the lad 
continued taking the money from his pocket, “ I’m going to 
pay you for my clogs.” 

“ Wait a bit, my lad, wait a bit now! I want to talk t’ 
thee. Put yoor money by a bit, I’ve got summat t’ say 
t’ thee. Yoor goin’ t’ see yoor mother o’ course, an’ I’m 
glad I catched sight o’ thee fust. Yo munna goo i’ clogs, 
my lad.” 

“ But, Mr. Lethers, why not ? It is such rot ! ” Charlie 
exclaimed pettishly. “ And she might as well see me in 
them first as last.” 

“ Yoor right. It is rot,” William admitted, “ but yo mun 
humour her a bit, Master Charlie.” 

“ But I’ve got nothing else to put on. I’m sure you 
haven’t been able to mend those old boots I left here.” 

“ No,” William admitted, “ I looked at ’em agin, but 
they’re past all mendin’. They’ll ’ave to be mended wi’ a 
new pair, as t’ sayin’ is.” 

Charlie looked at William in alarm. 

“ I say, Mr. Lethers, I really oughtn’t to run into any 
more debt.” 

“ There’s different sorts o’ debts,” said William as he 
passed to that side of the shop where he kept his boots and 
shoes. “ When a man, or a lad either, ’as got ivery pros- 


52 


THE WEEK END 


pec’ o’ payin’ for what he wants very bad — well, that 
debt’s a’ reet. Yo mun ’ave a pair o’ shoes! ” 

Artful William was thinking of the Chittywick family — 
did wish Charlie to humour his mother; but the good man 
was thinking much more of the lad’s attendance at Sunday 
Mass. 

“ These are very jolly ” Charlie exclaimed. “ They fit 
beautifully ! ” 

He looked at the stout shoes, made in William’s own 
shop, with great satisfaction. William explained that they 
were not fancy goods or machine-made articles, and that 
they would prove serviceable. Many lads wore them on 
Sundays, and when the sole and heel began to go the 
uppers were strong enough to be clogged for every-day use. 
Still William added, he had plenty of fancy stuff if Charlie 
preferred it. But the boy was more than satisfied. 

William was convinced with difficulty that Charlie had 
dined, or that just at the moment he was unequal even to a 
snack; but he could not be permitted to go home, even on 
the promise of coming again, until he had seen Jane. Art- 
ful Jane and William! 

Mrs. Lethers said that probably Charlie hadn’t received 
his Jinen from the wash. A clean collar freshened up a boy 
wonderfully, and by the same token she had one in her 
hand. Very soon it was round Charlie’s neck. In various 
small motherly ways she “ titivated him up,” as she called 
it, and it was a very presentable Charlie indeed, that a few 
minutes later, appeared in the Chittywick drawing-room. 


THE WEEK END 


53 


Mrs. Chittywick was not there and the girls received him 
with a tornado of abuse. Now singly and now together, 
they called him all the bad names they had ever heard or 
read, with one or two that they invented on the spot. In 
vain the boy tried to make himself heard. “ Where’s 
mother?” he asked again and again, but it was like ad- 
dressing and expecting to get an answer from the factory 
machinery, he thought. He turned away and ran upstairs 
to his mother’s room. 

Mrs. Chittywick was not in bed, but she explained with 
many tears that “ ever since that fatal Tuesday she had 
been obliged to keep her room.” Almost with the elo- 
quence of her daughters she spoke of Charlie’s “ base de- 
sertion ” — “ the eternal disgrace of a highly-connected fam- 
ily ” — “ the outrage on decency her son had unblushingly 
committed ” — “ the deliberate dragging down of the family 
name, making it a by-word in the mouth of all the riff-raff 
in Ridingdale ” — and very much more to the same effect. 

Charlie had kissed her when he entered the room, but 
she had scarcely looked at him. He now stood by her 
chair in silence. Bitter thoughts came to his mind and 
hard words rose to his lips, but with a big effort he re- 
strained himself. Things were worse than he had antici- 
pated. It was inevitable that in a few minutes Mrs. Chit- 
tywick would break down and renew her sobs and tears. 

“ Look at me, mother,” he said at length, standing in 
front of her. “ Look at me ! This time last week I had 
scarcely a bit of shoe to my foot. I was much hungrier 


54 


THE WEEK END 


than a workhouse lad. I was leading a lazier life than any 
lad in Ridingdale. I hadn’t a halfpenny in my pocket. 
To-day I am well-fed, well-shod, well looked after. I have 
money in my pocket. For the first time in my life I can 
call myself respectable.” 

Mrs. Chittywick hid her face in her handkerchief and 
moaned. “ Respectable ! ” he thought he heard her ejacu- 
late. 

“ Yes, mother,” he said with a certain boyish sternness, 
“respectable. Look at me, mother, and see. Remember 
what the baker told you, mother. I don’t want to hurt you, 
but I must say it. He said I was a thief. He was quite 
right. I was a thief. Other people could have told you 
the same. There is hardly a shop in Ridingdale that I 
haven’t thieved from. Do you call that respectable, mother? 
I was a thief and a liar. I always denied that I had taken 
anything. You believed me, of course. Nobody else 
could. Once at the grocer’s they took me into a back room 
and searched me. My pockets were crammed with biscuits 
and cheese, but I swore that I had brought them from 
home. They locked me in the room and sent for the po- 
liceman. Luckily for me — and for you, mother — the man 
couldn’t find him. They let me go and told me never to 
enter that shop again.” 

Mrs. Chittywick rocked herself to and fro in her chair, 
but the boy went on relentlessly. 

“ It is right, mother, that you should know the truth. 
I am not blaming you so much as my father, though of 


THE WEEK END 


55 


course I blame myself most of all. I never stole until I was 
so hungry I didn’t know what to do with myself. And I 
never took anything but eatables. More than once, mother, 
I have been whipped and beaten till I was black and blue 
for taking things from gardens and orchards. You re- 
member that time you thought I had been out all night? 
I denied it of course, but it was quite true. I spent that 
night lying in Goodwin’s stable with my hands strapped 
behind me and my legs chained to the manger. He caught 
me late at night in one of his plum-trees. It was not the 
first time he had caught me. He asked me if I would go 
to the lock-up or his stable, and of course I said the stable. 
Early in the morning, his wife came and unfastened me 
and let me go home. Mother, it is simply a miracle that 
I never got into the hands of the police! There’s many 
and many a poor lad in prison; or in a reformatory, at this 
moment who has stolen much less than I have ! ” 

If the boy had not been so accustomed to his mother’s 
hysterical tears he would have desisted, but her unreason- 
ableness made him reckless. To him indeed it seemed as 
though he were not blaming her even implicitly. He 
thought that to justify the step he had lately taken he must 
first of all denounce himself. 

“ Surely, surely, mother, it is better to be a factory-lad 
than a thief! It is better to work than to be idle and 
pretend to be genteel. If you only knew, mother, how sick 
of that word I am! It is on Lavinia’s lips everlastingly. 
She might make plenty of money if she would only take up 


THE WEEK END 


56 

the right kind of work. I’ve heard Miss Rippell say again 
and again that if my sisters would only knit stockings and 
really useful things she could keep them going all the year 
round. But it is not genteel, they say, and they work day 
after day at silly things that people wouldn’t care to have 
even as gifts. However, I don’t want to talk about them. 
I’ve come to tell you that I’m working at the factory and 
that I mean to go on working there. If you disown me I 
can’t help it. I am sorry to hurt you, mother, but some 
day I was bound to say what I have just said. Tell me if 
you had rather I had not come home. I shall be in Riding- 
dale every Saturday, I hope, and if you want to see me I 
will always come to you.” 

He made as though he would leave her, and for the first 
time since he had come in she looked up and eyed him from 
head to foot. 

“ You look very — very respectable,” she said in a sur- 
prised tone. “ They told me you wore clogs. That was a 
mistake, I see.” 

“ Not at all, mother. Of course I wear clogs, and am 
thankful to have them. But I needn’t come here in them, 
you know.” 

“ Don’t — O, please don’t, Charles ! ” she sobbed. 

“ Very well, mother. I must be getting back to Hard- 
low now — unless ” He waited to give her the oppor- 

tunity of asking him to stay the night. Then he thought 
of his sisters and was almost glad when his mother made 


THE WEEK END 


57 


no response. “ Good-bye, mother,” he said, taking her 
hand. 

“ You have broken my heart, Charles,” she sobbed. 

“ I’ve done nothing of the kind, mother ! ” he said, trying 
not to speak angrily. “ If I had stayed at home I might 
have done. Would you like me to come and see you on 
Saturdays or Sundays ? ” he asked in a gentler tone, taking 
her hand afresh. She made no reply and he walked slowly 
from the room. Going to his own bedroom he sat down 
and cried. He had always thought that his mother did not 
really love him : it seemed now as though she never wanted 
to see him again. It was some time before he pulled him- 
self together and began to collect into a parcel the few 
books and odds and ends that he could call his own. When 
he had done this — it did not take long — he went quickly 
down-stairs and let himself out. At the half-door of Wil- 
liam’s shop, Charlie hesitated for a moment. Perhaps it 
would be better to go straight back to Hardlow. It was 
tea-time now, he thought, and he ought not to force them, 
as it were, to ask him in. But while he hesitated, Jane 
came down the street and literally drove him before her 
into the shop. She had seen him hesitate; she now saw 
that he had been crying. 

As they passed through the shop, William was fitting a 
pair of clogs on the feet of a rosy-cheeked boy whose 
mother was showing great solicitude lest the new foot-gear 
should pinch her darling. The sight hurt Charlie like a 
blow. The rosy youngster stood up and his mother’s hand 


58 


THE WEEK END 


rested on his curly hair. She watched him with affectionate 
pride as he laughingly clanked from one end of the shop to 
the other. Charlie followed Mrs. Lethers into the parlour 
and shut the door, but he could not refrain from peeping 
through the half-curtained window. Yes, he thought he 
recognized the woman : he was glad that she had not 
noticed him. It was Farmer Goodwin’s wife — the motherly 
creature who had come to the stable to him so early on a 
certain morning and set him at liberty. 

How well he remembered that woeful night! He had 
slept at intervals — only to wake up with a start and find 
himself bound hand and foot. Long before the dawn the 
pains in his limbs were excruciating, for the man had made 
the straps very tight. His ankles were fastened with a 
horse’s head-band, and the chain and block to which this 
was attached grated on the staple every time he moved his 
feet. And in the morning, Goodwin had said, “ when he 
could see to use it properly,” he would bring his horse-whip. 
How grateful Charlie had been to the pitying woman who 
released him, but how ashamed he would be to meet her 
again! He felt sure that she had not noticed him as he 
passed through the shop: she had been too much occupied 
with her son. 

However, Mrs. Lethers had taken into her own kind 
custody the boy with a shameful past, and he sat down in 
the little back-parlour with a deep sigh of gratitude. 


CHAPTER VI. 


SATURDAY NIGHT. 

Mrs. Lethers had been out for tea-cakes — “ thirteen for 
sixpence and find your own butter,” as William facetiously 
remarked when he came in and found her toasting them. 

“ Couldn’t I help you with them, Mrs. Lethers ? ” Charlie 
asked. “ I think my hands are quite clean.” 

William thought that if his guest helped to eat them the 
missis would be best pleased; but Jane resigned the toasting- 
fork gratefully. 

“ You don’t look too ’ot,” she said to Charlie, “ and 
Saturday’s a busy day wi’ us.” Liberally buttering the 
cakes she had already toasted she watched him with ap- 
proval as he gently moved the fork about and took care 
not to burn her favourite dainty. 

Saturday was a busy day in the dogger’s establishment, 
and both Jane and her husband had to get up and leave 
their tea half-finished. In the shop behind Charlie could 
hear an incessant hammering. It would be late before the 
lads finished, William said. He had pledged himself to 
deliver certain goods by ten o’clock at the latest, and he 
rarely disappointed a customer. A good deal of work he 
put out to men who came for it and carried it to their own 
homes, for though he was the only master-dogger in Rid- 

59 


6q 


SATURDAY NIGHT 


ingdale at that time, and did a large trade in clogs, he was 
never without orders for hand-made boots and shoes. For 
these he was said to charge “t’ top price,” but everybody 
admitted that both his materials and workmanship were 
first-rate. To have had a pair of boots made by William 
was in itself a claim to distinction. Very plain and very 
strong they were, quite strong enough (as William had said 
to Charlie) to be fitted with a wooden sole and taken for 
every-day wear when they had done a year’s Sunday and 
holiday duty, for the uppers were said to be everlasting. 
Indeed in some families of boys the excellence of William’s 
leather was a grievance. Tommie, aged thirteen, would be 
measured by William for a pair of Sunday boots. These 
he would wear until his growing foot refused to enter them. 
Then they would descend to his next brother Jim, who also 
would wear them on Sunday and feasts until they became 
too small for them. At this period, having been in use some 
two years, they would be showing signs of wear, but as 
mother was sure to decide that the uppers were as good as 
new — better in fact that some uppers she had known, they 
would be handed down to little Jack as a brand-new pair of 
clogs. And as little Jack well knew, the number of wooden 
soles and sets of irons they were capable of receiving was, 
to put it mildly, indefinite. 

Charlie had been, for him, a little silent during tea. The 
recent interview with his mother had depressed him. He 
was conscious of a big pain — somewhere, he could not quite 
locate it. That Mr. and Mrs. Lethers should be constantly 


SATURDAY NIGHT 


61 


called to the shop he regretted and at the same time rejoiced 
over. He was grateful to them for not asking him ques- 
tions. The January night was closing in and he ought to 
be setting out for Hardlow. He had told his grandmother 
that he might not return till Sunday evening, but it was 
clear that his mother’s door was closed against him. In 
their kindness, the Lethers might ask him to stay with 
them, but he could not do so. He did not think it would 
be right. 

Returning to the parlour after serving a woman customer, 
Jane found him buttoning his overcoat and fingering his 
cap — a Glengarry that she had made for him herself as a 
substitute for the old straw hat. 

“ Goin’ in ’ome a bit ? ” she asked him. 

“ Not my next door home, Mrs. Lethers. No, they 
don’t want me. I’m not sure they’d let me stop all night 
if I asked them.” His voice broke a little at the end though 
he was trying to smile. 

“ Then wheer art tha’ gooin to, lad, this time o’ neet ? ” 

Charlie did laugh now, though the tears stood in his 
eyes ; it was only a little after five o’clock and Mrs. Lethers 
spoke as if it were nearing midnight. 

“ O, to Hardlow,” he said cheerily. “ I can do it under 
the hour.” 

Jane put down her teacup, took the cap from his hand, 
and unbuttoned and removed his overcoat. “ Yo’re goin’ 
to no ’Ardlow this neet, my lad. Mek yourself content wi’ 


62 


SATURDAY NIGHT 


that. I know’d ow things ’d be. I towd William last neet 
they’d be fit t’ turn thee out. An’ I ’ad t’ bed-elothes airin’ 
all t’ mornin’. We’ve plenty o’ room for thee i’ our ’ouse. 
An we shanna put thee i’ a damp bed neither.” 

A great flood of gratitude filled the boy’s soul. “ Oh, 
Mrs. Lethers, you are good to me ! ” he exclaimed breath- 
lessly. 

“ Aye,” she retorted with a patiently affected asperity, 
“ good for nowt y’ mean.” 

Charlie made haste to laugh lest that choking feeling 
should return, and as he leant back in the rocking-chair in 
which she had put him as if he were her own child, he made 
the little parlour re-echo with mirth. 

“ What’s t’ matter now ? ” inquired William as he 
returned to his belated meal. “ Is ’er mekkin’ jokes, lad ? 
Ow often does. Ow’s a wonderful joker is Jane Lethers. 
Ow’d mek a dog laff sometimes, would Jane. I’ve niver 
’eerd t’ like o’ my missis.” 

Jane gave her husband a playful push into his chair and 
told him to stop his mouth with “ that ” — that being a 
plateful of tea-cake that she had been keeping warm for him 
in the Dutch oven that stood before the fire. 

Tears had no chance with Charlie after this, and he 
chatted gaily with William while the latter finished his tea, 
and Mrs. Lethers went to the shop to fit a little girl and her 
three year old brother with clogs. 

But when William had drained his cup, he turned to the 


SATURDAY NIGHT 


63 


boy suddenly and with a look of great seriousness. He 
began by remarking that he hoped Charlie wouldn’t mind 
what he was going to say. 

“ Y’ see, my lad, I’m quite owd enough t’ be yer feyther, 
aren’t I now ? ” he continued, and Charlie, a little alarmed, 
assented. During the week, he had often wondered how 
much Mr. and Mrs. Lethers knew about his past — what 
they might have heard about him from shopkeepers and 
farmers and gardeners. William knew everybody and 
everybody knew William, and all Ridingdale seemed to 
come to his shop. Even the Goodwins apparently, whose 
farm lay on the other side of Timmington, dealt with 
Lethers. Perhaps that very day William had learnt some- 
thing fresh. Charlie began to feel nervously apprehensive. 
William noticed this and soon set him at his ease. 

He said that a new start in this life ought to mean a new 
start for the Other. It wasn’t for him to press the matter, 
he went on; but didn’t Charlie think he’d feel all the better 
if he just went up to the chapel and had a nice quiet talk 
with Father Connelly? 

The boy blushed painfully. It was not the first time in 
his young life that William had spoken to him on this 
subject. Nay, but Charlie now remembered that months 
ago (last Easter as a matter of fact) he had promised faith- 
fully to go to Confession and — he had not been. He had 
honestly intended to do so when he made the promise, but 
somehow the time, slipped by and he forgot all about it. 


64 


SATURDAY NIGHT 


His mother had not been, nor had his sisters, he may have 
argued, and why should he force himself to go? It was so 
very long since he had knelt at the feet of God’s priest. 

There were times when William could speak with rare, if 
rugged, eloquence, and this was one of them. He guessed 
some of the lad’s difficulties. There was not much in the 
boy’s career that he did not know from hearsay, and from 
observation he had learned much. Charlie’s confession of 
his temptation the other night had made William hopeful. 

“ It’s such a long time since I went,” said the boy when 
William had finished. 

“ Just another good reason why yo should goo this very 
minute.” 

“ It’ll take a fearfully long time, Mr. Lethers.” 

“ Wunna do owt o’ t’ sort. There’s only ten command- 
ments, lad.” 

“ I do want to go. I want very badly to go. I’ve 
thought about it often lately. Only ” 

“ Then i’ th’ name o’ God — goo now! ” exclaimed the 
man with great earnestness. 

And Charlie went. 

On leaving the church, the first person Charlie met was 
Freddy Armstrong. The little boy was going on an errand 
and could not linger, but one look at Charlie’s happy face 
was enough. 

“ O Charlie ! ” exclaimed the child, “ you do look so — 
so glad.” 


SATURDAY NIGHT 


65 


“ I feel it, Freddy. Haven’t felt so jolly for years. 
You see, I’ve just been — well, I’ve just been making up 
my mind to be a better chap.” 

In later years Charlie Chittywick used to say that of all 
the nights of his life his memory could recall, that particu- 
lar Saturday night was most crowded with gladness. He 
had walked slowly up to the chapel with a heart as heavy as 
lead ; he left it, he declared, with something of the joy that 
a redeemed soul must feel when it finds itself in Paradise. 
How he got back to the dogger’s shop he never knew, but 
if he had ridden on the wings of the wind he could scarcely 
have been fleeter. The shop' was full of people, but one 
glance at the boy’s face as he passed into the parlour was 
enough for William. “ The grace o’ God shone on it,” the 
man said afterwards. 

Charlie had brought back with him two little books. 
One was a small Garden of the Soul, the other a Catechism. 
He was almost too happy to sit still, but he walked about 
the room now reading in one book now in the other. Jane 
and William were as busy as they could be. Charlie would 
peep now and then through the window into the shop, 
which looked as though it would never empty, and it 
seemed to him that everybody he saw was just brimming 
over with happiness. Once or twice he noticed people who 
were Catholics, and he felt half-inclined to rush out of the 
room and shake them heartily by the hand. Young Aloy- 
sius O’Brien called for his new boots, and Charley longed 


66 


SATURDAY NIGHT 


to open the door and ask him if he had made his first Com- 
munion. But of course he had, Charlie reflected. Aloysius 
was fifteen and — the pain came back for a moment — he 
had a good father and mother. Probably he, Charlie, was 
the only Catholic boy of his age in the Dale who had never 
received the Bread of Life. 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE ARMSTRONGS. 

Freddy Armstrong’s feelings in regard to Sunday — in his 
home it was always spoken of as the Sabbath — were curi- 
ously mixed. His father was never tired of quoting the 
text: This is the day which the Lord has made: let us re- 
joice and be glad in it; but to Freddy the rejoicing was not 
very apparent. It was of course a day of chapel-going 
and of attendance at Sunday School. Mr. Armstrong him- 
self began it by going to an early prayer-meeting — a before- 
breakfast service that neither Freddy nor his mother was 
called upon to attend. 

It was a day of much beef. Never once during the 
whole of his boyhood could Freddy remember an instance 
of the absence of beef-steak at Sunday breakfast, of roast 
sirloin at dinner, of cold sirloin at supper. Other heavy 
forms of food were often added, but the beef was as 
inevitable as the hour-long sermons. I say hour-long, but 
when the minister did not exceed the hour the junior mem- 
bers of his congregation congratulated themselves ; an hour 
and a half was not unknown, while an hour and a quarter 
was considered by many to be their due. 

At a quarter-past nine Freddy started off to Sunday 

School with his father, who was superintendent. The 

67 


68 


THE ARMSTRONGS 


child’s position was an awkward one. He was forbidden to 
mix with boys who were not of his own rank, and seeing 
that his father’s status in Ridingdale was that of a leading 
man — among the dissenters at least — Freddy often found 
it difficult to obey the parental injunction. The class of 
little boys in which he sat was a big and a very mixed one. 
Fortunately the position was saved by the presence of four 
or five boys whose parents were either farmers or trades- 
people. It is a fact that at this time every single shop- 
keeper in Ridingdale, with the exception of William Leth- 
ers and Miss Rippell, was a dissenter. 

The teacher of Freddy’s class was not even a shopkeeper. 
He was a young man who did repairs for Rompton the 
shoemaker. He was a good-living youth, quite without 
education. Even in a reading lesson Freddy could have 
beaten him. His intelligence was rather below the average, 
and he had an odd impediment in his speech which, com- 
bined with the broadest possible Yorkshire accent, often 
enough made him unintelligible to Freddy, if not to the 
rest. A strong desire to laugh struggled in the boy’s mind 
with a certain pity for the young man; but if it had not 
been for the perambulating Superintendent with his thick 
cane, the laughter would have triumphed now and then. 
Mr. Armstrong was a power in Ridingdale, in the Baptist 
sect, in his own household : in the Sunday School he was a 
terror. His eye was everywhere: his rod was supple and 
thick and far-reaching. The biggest lout in the school 


THE ARMSTRONGS 69 

quailed before him. Few Sundays passed without a tem- 
pest of strokes and a chorus of howls. 

Moreover, Mr. Armstrong was wont to come up to 
Freddy’s class at the close of afternoon Sunday School — - 
the dreariest time of the dreary day — and inquire loudly 
of the teacher : “ Well, Tom, has my lad behaved himself? ” 
Fortunately for Freddy, the young cobbler’s answer was 
always re-assuring. 

In the warm little heart of the child a sense of gratitude 
towards this illiterate and uncomely young man would often 
arise, for Freddy was conscious of many shortcomings — 
the merest trifles really, but things that his father would 
have regarded as the gravest delinquencies. Though he 
was not yet eight years old he was a dreamer of dreams, 
and his besetting sin was “ losing his place ” and missing 
his turn in the Bible that was read verse by verse. The 
teacher was more patient with him than with some of his 
companions — perhaps because he was the best reader in the 
class. But his father had laid it down again and again, 
in public and in private, that “ the Sabbath was a day 
upon which we were not even to think our own thoughts,” 
and he, Freddy, thought of a thousand things outside the 
Scripture lesson. 

Sunday was a well-occupied day. The morning was 
entirely filled with Sunday School and Chapel. The inter- 
val between the one o’clock dinner and afternoon Sunday 
School was a short one. The half-past four o’clock tea 
generally meant visitors who, to Freddy, were a weariness; 


70 


THE ARMSTRONGS 


for they talked chapel until he yawned — furtively, because 
it was a wicked thing to do on the Sabbath, nearly as bad 
as whistling, but not quite. He was not allowed to speak 
unless somebody spoke to him, and even the plum-cake and 
hot toast scarcely compensated for a two hours' sitting 
upright in a chair from which at that period his legs neces- 
sarily dangled. Now and then in sheer pity his mother 
would send him out into the yard — not to play, of course; 
that would have been criminal. 

But on Sundays even the joys of the farmyard seemed to 
be absent. Moreover in honor of the day he was clad in 
solemn black and wore thin shoes, and a walk through the 
farm meant a careful stepping in clean places and an 
avoidance of all the haunts and occupations of the week- 
day. He liked to watch old George milking the cows, but 
the cowman was a depressing person on Sundays. Almost 
worse than the parlour visitors was George, for he would 
catechise Freddy on the morning sermon and ask him 
searching questions as to the state of his soul, until the 
little boy was really glad to get back again into the house. 

After this, half-past six chapel was almost a relief, and 
when the sermon came Freddy slept — frankly and tran- 
quilly. His father had indeed objected to this, but mother 
had pleaded for the slumber on the ground of his extreme 
youth. It was comfortable in the well-cushioned, thickly- 
carpeted and hassocked pew, and Freddy sitting by his 
mother would look at the gaslights until they multiplied 
themselves — stare at the preacher until he too was multi- 


THE ARMSTRONGS 


7i 


plied and then — well he always woke up at the end to find 
his head pillowed on his mother’s shoulder and his hand 
resting in hers. There was a prayer-meeting afterwards, 
but as a rule Freddy and his mother did not remain for it. 
Father invariably did. 

That was quite the nicest time of the day for the child — 
the little walk home with his arm tucked in mother’s — the 
cosy chat and the quiet hour before father came in from 
chapel. There would be a big supper at nine o’clock, with 
cold sirloin and strong ale and Stilton cheese; Freddy 
himself would be in bed by that time. The minister, and 
perhaps a deacon or two, would be at supper, but their 
conversation could not reach the ears of the boy whose 
hour-long nap in the chapel only increased his appetite for 
long and profound sleep. 

Monday morning brought to Freddy a rush of joy and 
hope. Once he had donned his every-day suit he felt him- 
self again. A great load was removed with the passing of 
Sunday. Now he could think his own thoughts without 
sin. School was school to be sure, but it contained possi- 
bilities of fun. It was a ladies’ school, but it was attended 
by boys much older than Freddy. Once he had turned 
eight he would go to Hardlow — in six months’ time, father 
said ; or perhaps less, since he had got on so well since last 
midsummer. Then all the joys of Hardlow Grammar 
School would be his. 

More than a dozen Ridingdale lads went to Hardlow 
every day, and among them were the sons not only of the 


72 


THE ARMSTRONGS 


Baptist but of the Wesleyan minister. It was a famous old 
school, dating back to the early part of the fourteenth 
century — though popularly spoken of as a foundation of the 
reign of Edward VI. Boys of almost every class attended 
it, the greater number of them being sons of farmers and 
tradesmen ; but among the boarders were always a few lads 
more or less connected with county families. On the other 
hand, the poorest boy in Hardlow could claim a free educa- 
tion within its walls once his parents had satisfied certain 
not very difficult conditions. Its scholarships were eagerly 
competed for and not unfrequently won by the sons of 
labourers and factory hands. Its discipline was strict, and, 
for the sixties, its standard of education was high. 

Freddy looked forward to Hardlow School with mixed 
feelings of course, but with considerable eagerness. It 
seemed to him that his life would really begin when he 
found himself within those famous walls. Without show- 
ing very much precocity, he was older than his years, and 
cared very little for the girlish little boys with whom he was 
now in daily contact. He frequently complained to his 
mother that they were silly and couldn’t talk. She smiled 
at his stolid little figure and rather serious face — seeing in 
him always some of the qualities of his father, and perhaps 
scarcely guessing that in Freddy her husband’s sternness 
of soul was relieved by her own sweet graciousness. Fred- 
dy’s questions and remarks often startled her ; her husband 
seemed to take them as a matter of course. She was very 
proud of the child and made a great companion of him. 


THE ARMSTRONGS 


73 


Mr. Armstrong’s business concerns were many and various, 
and during the week he was often away from home. 
Though people spoke of him as a farmer and malster, the 
farming and malting were rather his hobbies than the busi- 
ness of his life. He had trusty and long-tried men to look 
after both — men who had worked for his own father from 
whom he had inherited the freehold farm as well as the 
malt-houses. Mr. Armstrong had started life as a par- 
ticularly well-to-do man; he had since become a wealthy 
one. 

Without actually fearing or disliking his father, Freddy 
always felt relieved when he heard that “ the master ” had 
gone to Leeds for the week. With his mother the boy 
never felt lonely and could talk quite freely and happily. 
Since in his father’s absence she had not forbidden it, he 
would sometimes talk to her about Charlie Chittywick; 
in his father’s presence he did not dare to mention the 
name, though Mr. Armstrong had never forbidden his son 
to speak to, or of, Charlie. The malster had simply no 
idea that the two boys were known to one another. If 
anyone had informed him of the fact he would instantly 
have denied it. 

Nor had Mrs. Armstrong forbidden her son to speak to 
Charlie. Freddy had so many times during the past year 
or two talked of a big boy of that name who had been 
“ so very kind to him ” that, even when she discovered that 
this big boy was the son of the man who had cheated her 
husband, she had no feelings towards Charlie that were 


74 


THE ARMSTRONGS 


not kindly and grateful; and when one day as she and 
Freddy were walking up the High Street together they met 
Charlie face to face, her heart went out in pity for the 
shabby, hungry-looking lad. With only a shame-faced 
glance at Mrs. Armstrong, Charlie had raised his cap and 
passed on, not daring to stop and speak to Freddy. But 
to ask Charlie to her house, or even to the farmyard, was 
quite another matter, and much as her son begged for it 
she dared not run the risk of exciting her husband’s wrath. 

“ Do you know, muver — have you heard?” — Freddy 
began one Monday morning in January as he and his 
mother sat at breakfast — “ Charlie Chittywick has gone to 
work. He’s gone to the factory at Hardlow.” 

Mrs. Armstrong expressed surprise and pleasure, but 
Freddy was silent for some seconds. He scarcely knew 
what to think of this great change in his hero’s life. 

“ Everybody’s glad,” went on Freddy after a time. 
“ I think I’m sorry, but I don’t know.” He had rather 
hoped that his mother would express some regret; still, he 
was wont to take his cue from her on most subjects, if not 
all — what little boy does not take his cue from mother? — 
and he wanted to hear her view of the matter. She quoted 
the lines of Dr. Watts’s hymn — the lines about Satan and 
the mischief that he finds “ for idle hands to do.” 

“ I s’pose,” asked Freddy a little doubtfully, “ he’s really 
a big boy and — very strong ? ” When you are eight years 
old, any lad who is more than head and shoulders taller 
than yourself is looked up to as a big fellow. 


THE ARMSTRONGS 


75 


“ Strong enough to work, dear. It will do him good. 
Anything is better than idling about the streets. And 
much younger boys than Charlie work at the factory.” 

At this period there was no Education Act. Little 
boys had no School Board Inspector to evade: but they 
paid a big penalty for their freedom. Not only did they 
forfeit some of life’s greatest pleasures and advantages, 
but their existence became one of perpetual hard labour 
long before their bodies were fitted for such servitude. 

“ Another egg, Freddy?”* 

“ No, thank you, muver.” 

Freddy was abstracted. Five or six separate questions 
were struggling in his mind for precedence, yet it was 
imperative that he should wrestle with eggs and bacon and 
marmalade, and the time was limited. Mr. Armstrong had 
long ago driven to Hardlow in order to catch an early 
train for Leeds : the railway had not yet reached Ridingdale 
— conceited little town as it was. It was more than half- 
past eight and school began at nine. A certain lesson 
wanted looking over again and, calamity of calamities! he 
had not yet put his boots on. Mother had said that he was 
always to put them on and lace them before breakfast, as it 
was not good to stoop immediately after a meal; but this 
morning he had forgotten. In fact Freddy was greatly 
pre-occupied — with two kinds of food. His food for 
thought was almost as abundant as the ample meal he was 
steadily finishing. 

Rising from the table to ring for more hot water, Mrs. 


THE ARMSTRONGS 


76 

Armstrong stumbled over Freddy’s boots which were stand- 
ing in a conspicuous place on the hearth-rug. Chiding him 
for not having put them on, she stopped to remove them 
and in doing so took a glance at their hob-nailed soles. 
She had the careful mother’s horror of wet feet, and outside 
the half-melted snow lay in slushy heaps. She was not a 
little surprised to find that from these strong little boots, 
new just before Christmas, her son had lost nearly half 
their proper equipment of nails. 

“ Before you come home to dinner, Freddy,” she com- 
manded, “ be sure you call at Tom’s shop and have those 
nails put in. However have you managed to cast so 
many? ” 

Freddy blushed and murmured something about “ just 
playing about ; ” but he was not at all sure that the play 
had always been of a legitimate kind. At this time of the 
year a boy could not be expected to walk to school when 
nature had made it possible for him to slide nearly all the 
way. This might be allowed to pass; but what of that 
new and exciting game to which the minister’s youngest 
son had lately introduced him! It consisted of striking 
sparks from the flag-stones — or better still, some hard little 
stretch of asphalted pavement — with your nailed boots; 
and that such sport meant an inevitable shedding of nails 
Freddy was prepared to admit. Here was another worry 
for a boy possessing something that resembled a conscience. 

It was well that Freddy was sturdy and sleek. A half- 
starved little boy oppressed with the weight of all the un- 


THE ARMSTRONGS 


77 


solved problems that lay upon the soul of Master Arm- 
strong, would have been a pitiable object. By the healthy 
and abundantly- fed such things can be borne patiently. 

This morning, home looked very cosy and inviting, and 
Freddy thought it a little hard that Arthur Joyce and two 
other small school-companions should, in the way of bad 
colds, be privileged above their fellows. The dining-room 
fire glowed strongly upon the thick Turkey carpet, the 
warm-looking crimson curtains and the dark red paper on 
the walls. The portrait of Mr. Spurgeon that hung oppo- 
site the big mirror over the mantel-piece, seemed actually 
to laugh. Breakfast was becoming a past event, but it had 
been exceedingly nice and quite unstinted. Indeed if the 
truth must be told, Freddy breathed rather hard and got 
redder than usual in the face when he stooped to lace his 
boots. 

It was a warm and rosy little boy, top-coated and muffled 
and kissed by a solicitous mother, that faced the damp 
grey January morning, envying that same mother just a 
little for that she could remain all the day, if so inclined, 
within the glow of the fire and under the shadow of Mr. 
Spurgeon’s portrait. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 

Sitting in his stockinged feet in Tom’s shop, and watch- 
ing the young man drive one nail after another into the 
small heavy boot, Freddy began to put to the cobbler a 
case of conscience. 

“ I want to ask you something, Tom,” Freddy began. 
“ I want you to tell me if you think this is a story. Muver 
looked at my boots this morning, and she asked me how I 
came to lose so many nails. (You see, Tom, these boots 
were new about a month ago.) Well, I said, ‘ O, I don’t 
know, muvver : I suppose in playing.’ But then I did know 
how some of them went, and it wasn’t exactly playing — • 
though perhaps it was something like it. Two or three 
of us stopped after school on that hard bit of gas-tar road, 
trying to knock sparks out of it with our boots. And I 
know that I lost a lot of nails out of mine because I noticed 
it the next morning. Well, Tom, do you think I told 
muver a lie?” 

In the very act of raising his hammer Tom had paused 
to stare at Freddy. The cobbler’s face was a study. He 
dropped his hammer and remained silent and thoughtful. 
Suddenly he had been confronted with what to him was 
a phenomenon — a boy with a conscience. Moreover, it was 

78 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 79 

the first time in his life that he had ever been asked to solve 
a problem in moral theology. 

For several minutes the Sunday School teacher within 
him struggled with the shoe-mender. There were ever so 
many reasons why he could not discourage the shedding of 
hob-nails on the part of school-boys. No job that came to 
him was quite so easy or so lucrative as the “ hobbing ” 
of boys’ boots. No fetching or carrying or waiting for 
the money. A lad came into the shop, sat down, took 
off a boot and handed it in. Twenty, thirty or fifty clinkers 
were driven home in no time, and all Tom had to do was 
to count them up at the end — he charged so much a dozen — 
and pocket the pennies. He worked for Rompton who kept 
the boot-shop in the High Street, but these little informal 
jobs were his own perquisites and he valued them highly. 

But then Tom was a Sunday School teacher and a 
“ church-member.” And here was a little boy with a 
slightly troubled conscience — in Tom’s narrow experience 
a rare bird indeed. Sin or no sin, was the question. 
Either the child had told a lie, or he had not. If he had 
(according to Tom’s theology, which was that of his sect), 
he was a slave of the devil and hell was yawning to receive 
his soul — unless Freddy happened to be a child of election. 
That Mrs. Armstrong was saved he had no sort of doubt; 
concerning the malster he was not so sure. It was quite 
true that Freddy’s father was a trustee of the chapel and 
that he had delivered it from debt; it could not be denied 
that Mr. Armstrong was the oldest deacon and that he had 


8o 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 


for years been Superintendent of the Sunday School, but — 
he was not a teetotaller. Tom was. 

Tom looked at the well-dressed boy sitting in front of 
him, and then at the strong little boot on his knee and 
delivered himself. 

“ It dunna sound altogether reet, awm thinkin’. An’ a 
lie’s an awful thing.” — He quoted many Scripture texts 
here, dwelling with relish on “ fire unquenchable .” — “ I’d 
go to t’ throne o’ grace if I was yo, Freddy. An’ I 
wouldna slape till I’d put it reet wi’ t’ mother.” 

Freddy’s hands trembled a little as he began to lace the 
one finished boot. He had little enough to fear from his 
mother 1 — except her tears. She was a gentle but a strict 
woman, more refined than her husband and better edu- 
cated. People often told Freddy that he was “ a child of 
many tears.” 

Tom was determined to be on the safe side, and with 
him the safe side was ever the rigorous one. So it was a 
serious-looking little boy that clattered up the High Street 
— a little unsteadily because of the many new nails that 
were at present above the level of the old ones — not daring 
to try spark-making upon the asphalt pavement, or upon 
the flags that succeeded it; not even stopping at the toy- 
shop window on this occasion, an omission that meant great 
pre-occupation of mind with Freddy. In Tom’s judgment 
he had told mother a lie. He had not meant to do so, of 
course. He wondered if that fact could make any differ- 
ence to the sin. 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 81 ' 

He had received an answer to one, and only one, of 
the several questions that were upon his mind; for after 
Tom’s decision in this very personal case, Freddy had not 
liked to speak of the souls of others. As he trotted to- 
wards home he felt, quite literally felt, that he had a good 
excuse for calling again upon the cobbler at the end of 
afternoon school. Either Tom had driven one nail too far 
into the boot, or the nail itself was a little longer than its 
fellows. Anyhow it hurt, and it would have to be ham- 
mered down from the inside. 

At their tete-a-tete dinner Freddy had intended to talk to 
his mother about Charlie Chittywick and to put to her the 
several questions that were puzzling him; now he would 
have to make confession of his sin. This he intended to 
do over the pudding. He could not risk an earlier spoiling 
of his mother’s appetite — to say nothing of his own. It 
was fortunate perhaps that in the end he did not defer his 
self-accusation. As he entered the dining-room he limped 
ever so little, but his mother noticed it. 

“ It’s a nail, muver,” he said in answer to her inquiry. 
“ P’raps it’s a judgment,” he went on after some hesitation. 
The rest of the confession became easy. Rather to his 
surprise mother did not look very shocked. In fact, long 
before the pudding came on, she fell to praising him; by 
the time he had finished his second helping he felt that he 
had deserved both pudding and praise. She quite refused 
to believe that the nail was a judgment. She did not even 
forbid him to strike sparks on the asphalt. She only in- 


82 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 


sisted upon a change of boots, bidding him call upon Tom 
with the hurting article immediately after school. 

“ You’ve heard about Charlie Chittywick, haven’t you, 
Tom?” was Freddy’s first question when he had handed in 
the offending boot. “ You’ve heard he’s gone to work at 
Hardlow?” 

Tom admitted the fact — rather grudgingly Freddy 
thought. 

“ It’s t’ first time I iver ’eerd ought good o’ yon,” added 
the cobbler, in a tone which implied that it would also be 
the last. 

Freddy thought this rather a bad opening, but the oppor- 
tunity of asking his Sunday School teacher a few questions 
was too precious to be lost. 

“ Muver thinks it’ll be very good for him,” hazarded 
Freddy. 

“ Good for his belly ’appen,” muttered Tom. “ But figs 
dunna grow on thistles.” 

Freddy pondered this remark for a moment and then 
said : 

“ But, Tom, he’s going to be a better boy. He told me 

_ _ >> 
so. 

Tom hammered at the boot before him with more vigour 
than was necessary. Then he fixed Freddy with a stern 
eye. 

“ Let me tell thee a thing, Freddy Armstrong: if there’s 
one lad i’ this ’ere Dale what’s a’ready damned — it’s Char- 
lie Chittywick.” 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 83 

Freddy gasped at the fearful emphasis with which this 
was said. 

“ Si thee, now. He’s a liar, and a thief. What says t’ 
book about liars and thieves ? ” 

Another fierce assault upon the boot ; and the man paused 
again to exclaim: 

“ Damned and double-damned is that Chittywick lad ! 
Isn’t he a Papist ?” 

Freddy could only trust himself to nod. 

“ And what’s a Papist ? ” the cobbler demanded fiercely. 

It was a question that Freddy could have answered in his 
own way, but he knew that it had been put rhetorically and 
that Tom would answer it himself. He did so $nd at great 
length. This ignorant cobbler merely repeated in uncouth 
language what educated men of his own sect had spoken 
and written. The gist of it was that every Catholic is born 
into the world damned for all eternity. The Vicar of Rid- 
ingdale had said the same thing, both in public and in pri- 
vate.. 

“ But, Tom,” faltered the little boy, “ can’t Charlie — 
can’t he be converted ? ” 

Tom shook his head solemnly. 

“ How can a lad be saved what mocks at the Gospel ? ” 

Freddy’s eyes were inquiring ones and Tom told the 
story. Stripped of its dialect and verbosity it amounted to 
this : — Tom had found the lad “ shacking about,” as he put 
it, and had offered him a tract. Charlie had refused to 
accept it, saying with a laugh, “ No thanks, Tom, I write 


84 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 


’em myself.” It was only an old joke that the boy had 
seen in some comic paper, but it exasperated the cobbler. 
There and then he had told Charlie what his proximate 
and remote future would assuredly be and — for it hap- 
pened to be one of those days when the boy was maddened 
with hunger — Charlie had retorted by bidding his tor- 
mentor to go to the place of which he was speaking, 

The affair had rankled in Tom’s mind, and certainly in 
his estimation Charlie was doubly and trebly condemned. 

Freddy could not argue with his Sunday School teacher. 
The fact that Charlie was a Papist was a hard one — one 
that could only be admitted sorrowfully ; but in the mind of 
the little chap there was a strong feeling that, whatever 
Tom might say, Charlie was going to be a better boy. 
Had not even the very look of him changed? There was 
no frown now on the pale face: the nervous, frightened, 
hungry glance had vanished. More than ever, Charlie was 
a sort of hero to Freddy, and to the latter the thought that 
a Catholic was doomed by the very fact to fire unquenchable 
was excruciatingly painful. For the first time in his life 
he felt disposed to question his teacher’s authority. 

Absolute loyalty is one of the rarest things on earth, be- 
cause it requires a rare degree of unselfishness. But just 
as the good God sends us a really bright and sunny nature 
now and then in order to make the world more habitable, 
so the same kind Providence creates for our solace here 
below a few hearts that are entirely loyal and true. They 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 85 

belong to men and women who do the best and most last- 
ing work for souls. 

To be loyal to Charlie had long been part of Fred- 
dy^ religion. He could not forget the trifling services 
Charlie had done for him; he could not forget the suffer- 
ings of the boy who had always been kind to him. Yet the 
two had nothing in common — saving human nature. 
Freddy had begun by pitying the hungry pale-faced boy, 
and then a big gratitude for little favours had intervened. 
Pity and gratitude lead to love of the truest kind, and in 
Freddy’s prayers at his bedside Charlie’s name came imme- 
diately after that of father and mother. 

Extra thoughtful was the little face — in repose it always 
looked serious — as its owner stumped steadily up the High 
Street towards home and tea. So much, so very much, 
Freddy wanted to ask somebody, anybody, if it were true 
that all Catholics would go to hell. Charlie’s name could 
not be mentioned before his father. To whom could he go 
with a question of this sort? He had great respect for 
Mr. Colpington the chemist, who was said by everybody to 
be a “ long-headed man ” — whatever that might mean; but 
Freddy scarcely liked to march in to the druggist’s shop 
without being sent. He liked Miss Rippell very much, but 
then she belonged to the Church of England; and besides, 
his father said she was worldly. Kelverston the confec- 
tioner was not only a Baptist, but an occasional local 
preacher, and fully approved of as a God-fearing man by 
Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong. Freddy paused for a moment 


86 QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 

as he came to Kelverston’s window— he very frequently 
did — and just at that very moment who should come out 
of the shop but the new minister ! 

Mr. Wanefort was still called the new minister, though 
as a matter of fact he had been in Ridingdale nearly six 
months. Whether he would find himself there six months 
hence had already become a favourite subject of conversa- 
tion at Ridingdale tea-tables. It was a question that only 
Freddy’s father could answer, but no one dared put it to 
him. There were people who watched his face carefully 
during Mr. Wanefort’s sermons and who from time to 
time nodded to one another significantly. The poor min- 
ister had his admirers, but they were not among the richer 
members of his flock. Freddy was beginning to love him. 

“Hello! hello! Freddy!” cried the minister, “where 
are you off to ? ” 

He was a cheerful, breezy little man, with a keen face 
whose rather hard lines were softened by an honest smile. 

“Coming home from school, eh? That’s right, just the 
jolliest time of the day. Tea and cakes waiting at home — 
possibly jam — eh?” 

The minister laughed pleasantly as he glanced down upon 
the child who looked so solemn. 

“ Please, sir ” began Freddy and then stopped. 

“ What is it, my little man ? ” 

Freddy looked up at the minister and felt encouraged. 

“ Please, Mr. Wanefort, I want to ask you something. 
May I?” 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 


87 


“ Course you may. Fire ahead, Freddy ! ” 

“ Does — I mean do — all Roman Catholics go to hell ? ” 
It was a cold night and the minister badly wanted to get 
home, but he pulled himself up short and stood still looking- 
down upon Freddy with amazement. 

“ What a fearful question, my boy/’ he said at length, 
trying to master his astonishment. “ Whatever put such a 
notion into a little head like yours? I wish all Baptists 
were as sure of going to heaven as some Catholics I know 
— ay, some even in this town.” 

It was Freddy now who looked astonished — and some- 
thing more. 

“ Have you any idea, child, how many million Catholics 
there are in the world? But of course you haven’t. And 
if I told you, it wouldn’t help things very much. But 
you’ve looked at the map of Europe, haven’t you? And 
you remember what a tiny little country England is, eh? 
Well, don’t forget that by far the greater part of Europe 
is Catholic, not Protestant. And remember that Europe 
is not the whole of the big world. Well now, just try to 
think what it would mean if all Catholics were lost. How- 
ever, we’ll talk about that some other time. It is not ex- 
actly what I wanted to say. Only you are a little boy — 
old for your years, Freddy, but still a little boy, and it is 
good for you to know that Ridingdale is a very little town 
and that England is a very little country. ” 

It was not at all what the minister had meant to say. 
But he had just been having an argument with Kelverston, 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 


who was one of his deacons, and had vainly tried to make 
the man understand that Ridingdale was not the world’s 
metropolis. The egregious narrow-mindedness of his flock 
often left him hopeless. 

Freddy had hardly listened to the minister’s words — once 
it was made clear to him that there was a chance of salva- 
tion, even for a Papist. The child’s heart was suddenly 
filled with hope, and a second question was struggling with- 
in him for expression. Mr. Wanefort was beginning to 
speak again when Freddy’s timid “ Please, sir,” interrupted 
him. Like all really good men the minister loved to be 
questioned by a child. 

“ Supposing,” began Freddy — and he repeated the word 
several times — “ supposing there was a boy who was down- 
right wicked, and told lies, and stole things, and laughed at 
people who tried to do him good. And then suppose that 
he began to work — hard, and gave over telling lies and 

stealing and^-and tried to be good, and ” Freddy was 

out of breath and did not quite know how to finish the 
sentence. 

“ Well, my boy? ” asked the minister, “ what then? ” 

“ I mean — could he be good if he wanted, and perhaps — 
perhaps go to heaven when he died ? ” 

“ Perhaps, my child, why do you say ‘ perhaps.’ There 
can be no perhaps in a case of that sort? For whom did 
Christ die, Freddy?” 

“ For the elect,” came the reply — though what the word 
really meant Freddy had no notion. 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 


89 


They were nearing Mr. Armstrong’s house and the min- 
ister could not prolong the conversation; but Freddy never 
forgot the last words with which they parted. 

“ My dear little lad, as you hope to be saved yourself, 
repeat these words of Jesus Christ until they are, as it were, 
burnt into your soul : — ‘ I am not come to call the just, hut 
sinners to repentance ” 


CHAPTER IX. 


THREE MONTHS LATER. 

There may be, there often is, an amazing difference 
between one small town and another, though the distance 
that separates them be very small. For years Hardlow had 
had a bad name in Ridingdale, and indeed throughout the 
district. Some said that the presence of a large factory 
made all the difference: many declared that the prevailing 
rowdiness was due to quite other causes. The common 
feeling of the Dale was that, for the most part, the inhabi- 
tants of Hardlow were “ a low lot/’ 

It is to Charlie’s credit that he passed three months at 
the factory without coming into collision with any of his 
mates, and without forming any undesirable acquaintances. 
In a fatherly way William had warned him against bad 
influences of this kind. 

“ Dunna be in a ’urry to tek oop wi’ a mate o’ any sort,” 
the dogger had said. “ They canna all be bad ; but tek a 
good look round before yo chip in wi’ anybody.” 

Happily Charlie did not at present feel the need of 
“ chipping in ” with any of his fellow-workers. “ Knock- 
ing off ” time found him weary, and the dark winter-times 
did not tempt him out. Once he had taken off his clogs 

90 


THREE MONTHS LATER 


91 


he was not inclined to put them on again until the following 
morning. 

Grannie made him very comfortable. Small and unpre- 
tentious as the cottage was, it was more homely and cosy, 
and much better-cared for, than his mother’s house. And 
except at the Lethers’ he had never enjoyed such ample 
meals. A sense of great satisfaction and thankfulness 
possessed him as he sat leisurely getting a hot and sub- 
stantial tea. He had done the work of the day, had 
laboured honestly and well. Night was the time for rest. 
He had no anxieties, no forebodings. The old life with its 
shameful shifts and meagre meals was over. 

Books took on a new meaning for him. Though William 
Lethers could not read, his house was not a bookless one. 
His wife and sons were scholars — in the Dale sense of the 
term. And Charlie never left Ridingdale on a Sunday 
night without carrying back a book. With him it became 
the book of the week. 

In her choice of reading, and as it was a matter of laying 
out “ good money,” Mrs. Lethers took advice. The hang- 
ing book-case in the parlour behind the shop contained a 
library that was representatively Catholic. There was 
Church history, there were lives of the saints. There were 
some of the novels of Scott and Dickens, and bound vol- 
umes of old Catholic magazines. Charlie began with the 
last-mentioned. 

Nightly he fell asleep over his book, but not until he had 
had an hour or two’s steady reading. Now and then he 


92 


THREE MONTHS LATER 


would read aloud to grannie who sat sewing or knitting by 
the fire. But half-past eight or nine o’clock found him 
ready for bed, and he slept the sleep of the healthy working 
lad. 

O but the early mornings were chilly and a little cheer- 
less! By six o’clock to the minute he must pass through 
the factory gates. Thanks to his grannie’s care and Wil- 
liam Lethers’ generosity, he had been able to add to his 
clothing. A suit of fustian, thick and warm, covered his 
thin limbs. Cold feet could hardly be his when lambswool 
and a good inch of wood and iron came between them and 
the snow or mud. 

Saturday afternoon found him “ true to the kindred 
points ” of Ridingdale and church. The week-end became 
a happy time. Even the walk was enjoyable. He always 
paid a visit to his mother — making it quite clear that he 
was ready to stay just as long as she wished for his com- 
pany. Sometimes he thought it hard that he should be 
made so welcome by the Lethers and that his own mother 
should not even ask him to take a cup of tea. 

The hour’s instruction he now received weekly from 
Father Macdonald introduced the lad into a new world of 
thought and feeling. Sunday’s sermon supplemented it 
very notably. The plain unadorned pulpit-talk went 
straight home to his heart. For the first time he fully real- 
ized the great truths of the religion in which he had been 
baptized, but of whose very first principles he had been 
brought up in ignorance. Happily for him, in the society 


THREE MONTHS LATER 


93 


of William Lethers and his family Charlie could see that 
religion in action, as well as in theory. Boy as he was, 
he could appreciate the practical piety of his host and 
hostess. In urging, or rather coaxing, him to this or that 
Catholic usage, they asked for nothing that they did not 
themselves rigorously observe. 

Easter was to bring him the Joy of Joys. On Easter 
Sunday he was to make his First Communion. Pleased 
with his attention and intelligence, the priest would have 

admitted him to this great privilege long before Paschal- 

* 

time had not the boy himself shown some anxiety to make 
one or two confessions before presenting himself at the 
altar. Helped by the grace of these confessions Charlie 
was gradually developing a certain delicacy of conscience 
not uncommon, though by no means too frequently met 
with, in boys of his age. 

Nearly two months had he labored at the mechanical 
drudgery of the mill without receiving anything very re- 
markable in the shape either of praise or blame. The work 
he was employed in gave him no opportunity of dis- 
tinguishing himself. His only virtues had been punctual- 
ity, attention, and a certain respectful attitude to those 
above him. He had only once or twice caught sight of the 
Manager since the morning of his arrival at Hardlow, and 
that important person had apparently taken no notice of the 
pale-faced boy whose clothes did not seem to make him 
like the rest of the young factory-lads. 

One morning towards the end of March, Charlie was 


94 


THREE MONTHS LATER 


summoned to the office. Such a sudden and unexpected 
occurrence frightened him a little, for he was a boy with a 
past. Putting on his fustian coat and trying to smooth his 
somewhat unruly hair, he prayed that his past sins might 
not find him out. As to the present, his conscience was 
clear enough, but — supposing the question was put to him, 
could he deny that he had been a thief ? 

Something in the Manager’s manner re-assured him, and 
the boy took heart after glancing at the great man’s face. 
He was often a quick-spoken, worried-looking manager, 
this Mr. Paleworthy; to-day he seemed almost gentle and 
a quiet smile rested upon his lips. After one hasty glance 
at his master, Charlie fixed his eyes on the brass toe-caps 
of his clogs and waited. For a moment or two the Man- 
ager scrutinized him in silence. 

“ Do you find your work hard ? ” asked Mr. Paleworthy 
at length. 

“ Not very, sir,” the boy answered, raising his head. 
“ Just a little sometimes, sir, but not very hard.” 

“ Do you write a good hand ? ” 

Charlie’s blush was a deep one as he said, “ I’m afraid 
not, sir.” 

“ Let me see it, will you,” said Mr. Paleworthy moving 
a heap of papers from his blotting-pad and selecting a short 
letter and a sheet of paper. “ Just copy that. Don’t hurry 
over it. I shall be back in a few minutes.” 

Very considerately the Manager left the office. Charlie 
wished his hand would not shake so. What if he should 


THREE MONTHS LATER 


95 


make a blot ! So much might depend upon the fair copying 
of this letter. He wished the paper had been ruled. 
Surely that line was anything but straight! How glad he 
was that the letter was so short ! 

He had finished it long before the Manager re-appeared. 
What a nice office it was, the boy thought, and what a 
thick carpet! He hoped the grooved irons of his clogs 
were not marking it. He wished his hands were a little 
cleaner, but he had not dared to stop to wash them, and he 
hoped Mr. Paleworthy would understand that. 

“ Finished ? Ah ! Hum ! ” said the Manager as he stepped 
to the desk and took the copy into his hands. “ Room for 
improvement, certainly. But then you are young, aren’t 
you? Not much over fourteen, are you? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ Well, all you want is careful practice. You would 
soon improve upon this. Besides, your hand is a little un- 
steady with work of a different kind. Don’t you feel your- 
self that with practice you could do better than this? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Of course. Well, now — sit down for a minute. Can 
you ride ? ” 

Charlie looked up quickly, and there was an unhesitating 
ring about his “ Yes, sir.” He had done a good deal of 
riding in his time — chiefly of the bare-backed sort. 

“ That’s all right. More boys can write than ride in 
these days, I find. What I want just now is a sort of 
messenger-boy — a lad who can be ready at any moment to 


96 


THREE MONTHS LATER 


saddle a pony and take letters or messages, sometimes small 
parcels, all about the neighbourhood. I suppose you know 
the Dale pretty well ? ” 

Again Charlie could answer without hesitation. Within 
a radius of twenty miles, few lads knew the country so well. 

“ I have been employing a very good and trustworthy 
young fellow up to now,” the Manager went on ; “ but he is 
growing up and I am going to take him into the office. 
I have been making inquiries about you in the mill and 
I find that you have given satisfaction. Moreover, I fancy 
you are more intelligent than some of our Hardlow lads, 
and your manners are certainly superior. Of course I shall 
have to make further inquiries about you. You came here 
from Ridingdale, did you not?” 

Charlie’s face grew whiter than it was wont to be as he 
answered “ Yes, sir.” Fortunately the Manager had turned 
to his desk and was making some memoranda on a slip of 
paper. 

“ You will have to carry about rather large sums of 
money sometimes to pay bills, get change, and so forth. 
So you see the post is one of trust, and in the interests of 
the firm I am bound to be as careful as possible in the choice 
of a messenger. I dare say you are very well known in 
Ridingdale?” 

Poor Charlie! Than he, nobody was better known in 
that little country town. 

“ Perhaps you yourself can suggest some reference.” 

The boy felt quite sick with fear. He doubted if any 


THREE MONTHS LATER 


97 


man or woman in the Dale, saving Mr. and Mrs. Lethers, 
would give him a good word. 

“ Perhaps your clergyman could speak for you,” the 
Manager suggested, seeing that Charlie hesitated. — He was 
a good man, this Mr. Paleworthy. He did not add to the 
boy’s embarrassment by fixing his eyes upon him. But 
before the lad could reply he asked : 

“ I suppose you are a member of the Church of Eng- 
land?” 

“ No, sir. I’m a Catholic.” 

Mr. Paleworthy started a little. Perhaps the only very 
solid prejudice that possessed him was that of Protestantism. 

“ I’m sorry to hear that ” The Manager’s manner had 

stiffened considerably. “ However ” Mr. Paleworthy 

paused. For a minute or two nothing was heard but the 
ticking of the office clock. Charlie wished his heart would 
not thump so badly : he was half afraid the Manager would 
hear it. 

“ Were you educated at Ridingdale? ” the man asked at 
length. 

In rather faltering words Charlie explained that his 
father had once kept a school, and that on its breaking up 
he (Charlie) had gone on doing lessons at home. 

“ Is your father a Romanist ? ” 

“ No, sir. Only my mother.” 

“ I see. Well, of course, you are not to blame. But I 
must have a good reference from some responsible person. 
In fact, I should like two . And I should certainly prefer 


98 THREE MONTHS LATER 

them to come from Protestants. Indeed I am not sure that 
I ought not to require some one to act as surety for your 
honesty. It is a thing often asked for in connection with 
places of trust. Well, I need not detain you any longer now. 
You may if you like take a holiday this afternoon and go 
over to Ridingdale. If you can get testimonials from two 
Protestants of any standing or position I will — well, I will 
consider the matter further. Or if any one person will go 
surety for you to the extent of — say twenty pounds, I will 
dispense with the references. I will see you again to- 
morrow.” 


CHAPTER X. 


A DILEMMA. 

Never before had Charlie’s hopes been raised so suddenly 
and so high — only to fall so suddenly and so low. 

As the lad walked slowly and dispiritedly to Ridingdale 
that afternoon, he told himself again and again that he 
was going upon a perfectly useless errand. This honour- 
able and desirable post was not for him. On the whole how- 
ever it seemed better to talk the matter over with the only 
friends he possessed. At the very least he would get their 
sympathy. He wanted that rather rare commodity very 
badly. 

It all seemed so very hard and so impossible to bear. 
Just at the very time when he was trying his hardest to be 
good, and to do his duty both to God and to his neighbour, 
his past sin was finding him out. He could not feel really 
secure of his old place in the factory, quite apart from the 
coveted post of messenger. Mr. Paleworthy had spoken of 
making inquiries in Ridingdale, and Charlie did not doubt 
that he would do so even if the two references were forth- 
coming. Charlie passed in review all the gentry, farmers, 
and tradespeople in the town : there was not one to whom he 
could go and demand a testimonial. Even William Lethers 
could not say truthfully that Charles Chittywick had always 
L Of C. 99 


100 


A DILEMMA 


been an honest boy ; for though Charlie had never stolen so 
much as an apple from the dogger’s garden, William was 
sure to have heard of his many peccadilloes. And of all 
men Charlie had ever known intimately, William was the 
least likely to tell a downright lie. 

A rush of tears came to his eyes more than once as he 
realized the hopelessness of his case. Why had Mr. Pale- 
worthy sent for him at all ? Why couldn’t he have left him 
alone to work as a common factory-lad? Why should his 
hopes have been raised to the seventh heaven, only to be 
lowered to the depths of despair? The whole business 
seemed so cruelly and unnecessarily sad. By a big effort 
that had cost him much he had tried to break with the past 
and all its naughtiness, and lo! it was all returning upon 
him with a force that threatened to overwhelm him. 

Taking the short cut over the fields that led to Ridingdale 
from Timington, he sat down for a while upon a gate. A 
sudden though struck him. He was making a useless 
journey — why should he pursue it? The factory at Hard- 
low was not the only one in Yorkshire. Why remain there 
to have his past deeds raked up, the sins he had truly re- 
pented of and confessed and determined never to commit 
again brought to the light of day and commented upon by 
that merciless Manager ? It was a free country and he was 
a free lad. He blushed hotly at the thought that but for 
the forbearance of others he might not have been free for 
several years to come. 

Surely the best and wisest thing he could do would be 


A DILEMMA 


IOI 


to get clear away from the Dale and from the past! The 
misery would always be hanging over him. It would be a 
satisfaction to his mother if he took his clogs and his fustian 
to some remote neighbourhood. He did not like the 
thought of leaving grannie, and to bid good-bye to Mr. and 
Mrs. Lethers would be a big trial. In the long run, how- 
ever, it would be better. He would go where there was a 
Catholic church, of course. 

Should he start at once, or wait until pay-day? It was 
Thursday, and he had only a few coppers left. Wherever 
he went he would have to walk, but that did not frighten 
him. Would it be right to go without saying anything to 
the Manager? Ought he to start without a word to Wil- 
liam and his wife? 

“Why that's niver Charlie, is't?” 

The voice was behind him, but before Charlie could get 
off the gate William Lethers had reached it. 

“ Why, whativer ista doin' 'ere lad, this time o' day? ” 

William leant against the gate. He had been collecting 
debts in the neighborhood of Timington and was on his 
\yay home. 

Charlie could not tell his tale with a straight lip, and 
William's heart filled with pity as he listened with the 
sympathy of silence. Late March sunshine flooded the 
meadows. A lark sang overhead. Little lambs skipped 
and played in a neighbouring field. 

Even when the lad had told his story in great detail, 
William was silent. He was “ bethinkin’ " himself, as he 


102 


A DILEMMA 


would have said; but Charlie took his friend’s speechless- 
ness as a confirmation of his own despair. 

“ I shall go away altogether, Mr. Lethers,” said the boy 
wearily. “ I shall get out of the Dale as soon as ever I can. 
There might be a chance for me elsewhere: there’s none 
here. I was thinking about it when you came up.” 

“ Let’s be gettin’ on a bit, lad,” said William at length 
laying a kindly hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “ It’s about 
ar’past three, I reckon,” looking at his watch. “ We shall 
be in good time for tea.” 

For an instant Charlie made as though he would refuse, 
but William’s hand was upon him and he felt that he could 
not break away rudely from so good a friend. 

“ We mun talk this o’er wi’ Jane, that we mun. My 
missis ’as got a wunderful ’ead for business, lad. She can 
’most see through a stone wall at times.” 

One thing Charlie was fully resolved not to mention. 
Boy-like he had quite misunderstood Mr. Paleworthy’s re- 
mark about a guarantee or surety, thinking it meant a 
present payment of twenty pounds down, a kind of ap- 
prenticeship fee. This he determined under no circum- 
stances to mention either to William or his wife. 

William again relapsed into a brown study, and Charlie 
walked by his side in melancholy silence. 

Mrs. Lethers was anything but silent — once the two 
were seated at her tea-table. Her mind and William’s 
worked in totally different ways. Jane thought aloud and 
in many words. Happily she did much more. She was 


A DILEMMA 


103 


prompt in kindly action as well as voluble in speech: in 
this she showed herself superior to many of her sex. 

Nothing of course could be done until tea was over. 
That helpful, necessary meal did not check the discussion 
of Charlie’s case; unfortunately, the more the matter was 
debated the more hopeless it seemed to be, and the more 
humiliating. For as Mrs. Lethers mentioned one trades- 
man after another to whom she was quite prepared to ap- 
peal for the lad’s references, Charlie was forced to explain 
why an interview with the person mentioned would be use- 
less. And with every fresh confession he had the miserable 
feeling that even in the estimation of these two people who 
had been so good to him he was lowering himself irrepara- 
bly. 

Mr. and Mrs. Lethers had known much of his past, but 
even they were not quite prepared to hear of the extent of 
his delinquencies. William looked at the lad in amaze- 
ment — with reproach Charlie thought — as one sad fact after 
another was revealed. 

“ No, Mrs. Lethers, you are very kind, but it’s no good. 
It’s all up with me. I’ll go back and tell Mr. Paleworthy 
that I can’t get the references. Perhaps he’ll let me go on 
working in the factory. If he doesn’t I’ll go into Lan- 
cashire. I’ll go to Oldburn. Now the cotton famine’s 
quite over they’re getting very busy everywhere, and I’ll 
soon get a job.” 

Mrs. Lethers had played her highest card by saying 
that she would put on her bonnet and go to see Colonel 


104 


A DILEMMA 


Ruggerson or his -wife. With a melancholy shake of the 
head Charlie had, so to say, trumped that card. Though 
he had never taken anything belonging to the Colonel he 
had reason to fear the leading Catholic in Ridingdale — 
its richest man and certainly one of its sternest. For the 
Colonel had spoken to Charlie more than once during the 
past year, and in terms that had made the boy wince. 

“ If you’re brought before me, young man, you’ll get no 
mercy,” the military magistrate had said. “ The fact that 
you’re a Catholic makes it all the worse. I should have to 
make an example of you ” 

After this both William and his wife were very silent for 
a time. It is scarcely necessary to say that after a while 
Mrs. Lethers found her tongue. 

There must be some way out of the difficulty, she urged. 
She, or William, or both of them would see Mr. Pale- 
worthy. He couldn’t be so bigoted as to reject their ref- 
erences just because they were Catholics. William wasn’t 
a rich man, but he was a tradesman — ay, just as respectable 
as any man in Ridingdale that stood behind a counter. He 
had been born and bred there, and his father and grand- 
father had been doggers before him — honest men that 
paid their way and always had a bit laid by in the bank. 

“ But, Mrs. Lethers,” said the hopeless boy, “ if you 
saw Mr. Paleworthy he’d be sure to ask you a lot of ques- 
tions about me, and I know — I know — ” 

“We shouldna tell lies, you mean? That’s reet enough,” 


A DILEMMA 


105 


Jane admitted. “ But you know, my lad, there’s different 
sorts o’ ways o’ say in’ what’s true.” 

Charlie saw that quite well. Even if these good people 
had to admit his past dishonesty, they would not do it 
without explaining its circumstances and the strength of his 
temptation. 

“ Now, luke a ’ere!” exclaimed William with a force 
and suddenness that startled Charlie, “ luke a ’ere, lad ! 
I’ve got a thowt. Did this Mester Paleworthy say owt 
about money — I mean owt about getting a surety ? ” 

Charlie blushed and played with his tea-cup. 

“ Nay, lad, out wi’t. Dunna kape nowt back.” 

“ I didn’t want to tell you that. He did say something 
about money — twenty pounds. He said either that or two 
references.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed William, looking at his wife. “ Ow’s 
that, lass ? ” 

“ It’s a deal of money,” Mrs. Lethers replied, looking 
fixedly at her husband. 

“ It’s a deal o’ money,” William admitted. “ You’n got 
to sell a sight o’ clogs before you’n made twenty pound 
profit.” 

“ O but you mustn’t think of it,” Charlie said quickly. 
“ I wouldn’t have thought of mentioning it if you hadn’t 
asked me. I made up my mind not to. I won’t have you 
pay all that money for me.” 

“Pey!” exclaimed William. “Yo dunna mean to say 
as you’d run away and mek us pey it ? ” 


io 6 


A DILEMMA 


“ Oh, I see,” said Charlie, as the truth dawned upon him, 
and with it just a tiny ray of hope. “ I understand now. 
Yes, of course, Mr. Paleworthy spoke of a surety. That 
doesn’t mean paying the money down, does it? It only 
means that if I — ■” 

“ William ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Lethers rising, “ if you’ve 
done your tea I want you in t’ shop.” 

The boy knew quite well that they could not discuss the 
matter in his presence. He felt somewhat nervous as to 
their decision. He saw clearly that the only possible chance 
of his getting the appointment lay in the willingness of 
these good people to make themselves responsible for his 
honesty. Surely it was asking a great deal of them ? His 
reformation was such a very recent affair — a matter of not 
quite three months. Kelverston the confectioner had once 
told him that he had “ bad blood in him.” The man had 
done his best with the aid of a stinging cane to remove a 
little of that same bad blood; but, thought Charlie, there 
must be a good deal of it still left within his system. He 
came from a bad stock, other candid and exasperated people 
had told him; could he deny it? He paced the little back 
room with a shamed and anxious face, feeling himself a 
nuisance to everybody and beginning to regret that William 
had chanced to overtake him on that particular afternoon. 
Far the best thing he could do, he told himself, would be 
to get out of the Dale, out of the county, altogether. He 
had already made himself to all intents and purposes a 
Lancashire lad: why should he remain in Yorkshire? 


A DILEMMA 


10 7 


“ So that’s settled!” William called out as he opened 
the door and returned to the parlour followed by his wife. 
The settlement had not taken long. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Lethers, “ me and William’s talked it 
o’er. Y’see,” she continued, looking at Charlie keenly and 
speaking significantly, “ we’ve got good ’opes of a lad what 
begins to go to his duties and sticks to ’em.” 

“ Yes,” echoed William, “ and sticks to ’em.” 

“ So we’ve a mind to trust thee, lad, and we dunna think 
we’ll iver be disappointed.” 

What Charlie said is difficult to record, because it could 
only utter itself in broken syllables; but both William and 
his wife seemed to understand. 

An hour later, a rather breathless lad found himself 
standing at Mr. Paleworthy’ s desk. The Manager was 
looking at a card that Charlie had just handed to him in an 
envelope: it was the business card of William Lethers, 
Bootmaker and Clogger, High St., Ridingdale. 

“ So this gentleman is prepared to stand surety for you, 
is he ? ” asked Mr. Paleworthy. 

“ Yes, sir. Mrs. Lethers has written the name of her 
bank on the back of the card, sir.” 

“ Hum ! Well, that is all right,” said the Manager as he 
read York and County Banking Co. “ I fancy I’ve heard 
of Lethers. He has been in Ridingdale for a long time, 
has he not ? ” 

“ All his life, sir.” 


io8 


A DILEMMA 


“ Oh, that’s all right. Very well. I’ll have the paper 
drawn up to-morrow morning. And if it’s not convenient 
for Mr. Lethers to come here one of the clerks can take it 
over for his signature. That I think settles the matter, 
Chittywick. From Monday morning next you may con- 
sider yourself as the firm’s messenger-boy.” 

Charlie gasped some words of gratitude. 

“ You will start with ten shillings a week. If at the end 
of three months your conduct is satisfactory you will get a 
rise of two shillings.” 

As Charlie left the Manager’s office the clock struck six. 
It was knocking-off time, and with a glad heart and a 
thankful one the lad ran off to his granny’s cottage. 


CHAPTER XI. 


THE MESSENGER-BOY. 

It was a proud and happy Charlie that drew rein at 
William’s door on the following Monday morning and 
received the congratulations of the dogger and his wife. 
A very spruce and bright-faced Charlie it was that rode 
up the Ridingdale High Street, and a very well-groomed 
pony that he rode. 

But it was a rather shame-faced Charlie who stopped at 
Kelverston’s, the confectioner, to pay a bill for his master. 
He was wondering how much they would remember of the 
past, and if by any chance some of his delinquencies were 
forgotten. The past was not very remote, and even Char- 
lie had found out that kindnesses are the only things some 
people forget. Perhaps he had not reckoned sufficiently on 
the wonder-working effect of a little gold. His past ex- 
periences had not included the paying of bills. But Kel- 
verston actually said, “ Thank you, sir,” and smiled most 
amiably as the boy handed the money across the counter. 

“ What will you take, Master Chittywick ? what will you 
take? Help yourself, sir, help yourself! ” 

Charlie gasped for breath. He thought at first that the 
confectioner was making fun of him. 

“ Try a hot pie, Master Charlie. They’re straight from 
109 


no 


THE MESSENGER-BOY 


the oven.” The man was actually getting a plate for him. 
“ You used to be — I mean you’ll like one of these, I know. 
And it’s a cold morning, isn’t it, sir? — though sunny.” 

The boy could not refuse the delicacy he had so often 
coveted and alas ! so often stolen — though his pride strongly 
tempted him to do so. Of all the Ridingdale tradesmen, 
Kelverston had been the most down upon him — and with 
reason. And of all the floggings he had ever received for 
pilfering, the one this man had given him scarcely six 
months ago was the severest. Yes, from where he stood 
he could see the table in that inner room upon which two 
stalwart men from the bakehouse stretched and held him 
while their master mercilessly plied the rod. Yet here he 
was to-day invited to help himself — almost compelled to the 
eating of a hot pie! Nay, to make the matter quite com- 
plete, Kelverston had actually left the shop and its contents 
in his hands! 

It was only when Charlie had finished his pie that the 
confectioner returned. 

“ You’ll make my compliments to Mr. Paleworthy and 
say I’m much obliged — won’t you? Yes. Well I’m glad 
to see you getting on so well, I’m sure. I wish you all 
good luck and hope you’ll rise like your predecessors have 
done.” 

But when Charlie had shaken hands and left the shop, 
the man laughed softly to himself and said : “ Hope the 

youngster’ll turn out well, that I do. But Fm mightly glad 
Paleworthy didn’t ask me to give him a character.” 


THE MESSENGER-BOY 


iii 


Charlie scarcely knew whether to be glad or sorry that 
there were no more bills for him to pay in Ridingdale. In 
one way it was very pleasant to demonstrate to his old 
acquaintances that he was a trusted servant of the great 
firm of Kittleshot and Son, and that he was by way of 
becoming a man of business rather than a factory-lad. At 
present he had made only two trifling changes in his dress. 
He still wore fustian, but a clean, broad turn-down collar 
was round his neck and, as became a rider through muddy 
lanes, on his legs were a pair of leather leggings specially 
made for him by William. He was on trial, he knew. 
Mr. Paleworthy had said so. And if he failed as messenger 
— he had not the slightest intention of doing so — he could 
go back to his old work in the factory. 

Yes, it was undoubtedly very pleasant to be riding on 
pony-back down the High Street that he knew so well, his 
shining clogs set in a pair of equally shining stirrups — 
warmly and comfortably clad and with the certain knowl- 
edge of a hot meal awaiting him at Hardlow. Yet it was 
at present a little trying to come across the people who had 
known him from childhood — the tradesmen he had so fre- 
quently robbed, the very folk who taking the law into their 
own hands (luckily for him) had subjected him to various 
forms of corporal and ignominious punishment. 

But now that he was no longer cold and hungry, now 
that he could regard himself as a personage, however hum- 
ble, he was not going to give way to self-pity. He was not 
a hero to himself by any means. It never once occurred to 


1 12 


THE MESSENGER-BOY 


him that at least one action of his life was tinged with 
heroism. By breaking away from the occasions of sin, by 
deliberately taking up an inferior social position, by dis- 
regarding that public opinion which makes so many men 
and boys contemptible cowards, he had done an act braver 
far than many of the daring deeds that are rewarded with a 
badge of courage. A tide had come in his affairs and he 
had taken it at the flood. Whether it Would lead to fortune 
or not he did not care to inquire. Already it had led to 
happiness — quite enough for one who had experienced mis- 
ery. 

But this was not all. He had not resented the helping 
hand of a man, humble and homely, whom he had been 
urged by his relations to avoid. Nay, he had placed him- 
self knowingly and willingly — gratefully even, under an in- 
fluence that, young as he was, he clearly saw could not but 
be an influence for good. At the moment of his sorest 
need, grace had been offered him and he had not rejected it. 

As he urged his pony into a gentle trot and rode back to 
Hardlow in the glow of the April sunshine, he soon forgot 
his little embarrassments of the morning and thought him- 
self one of the happiest of living boys. Everything might 
have been so very different, he told himself. Supposing he 
had not left Ridingdale when he did! What might not 
have happened? It was unlikely that people would have 
remained as tolerant of the growing lad as they had been of 
the pinched and hungry small boy. Imprisonment and life- 
long disgrace must have come sooner or later. The mys- 


THE MESSENGER-BOY 


113 

tery of life did not weigh very heavily upon him, and he 
did not torture himself with useless speculations; but the 
thought suddenly came to him that the taking of a single 
false step in this life was often fraught with irreparable 
disaster. When we are young, the first realization of a 
great truth, however commonplace, startles us very con- 
siderably. A single action, and we are made or marred! 
It was an awful thought. He had at the time seen the 
ruin that would certainly have come upon him if he had 
yielded to the temptation of stealing the boots : it was only 
now that he understood how much of his present happiness 
had come about through the taking of one decisive step in 
the right direction. Yes, the one truth was great and as 
real as the other. 

It had been an effort, of course. He remembered so well 
how on that famous night he had stood outside William’s 
shop trying to make up his mind. With shivering limbs 
and chattering teeth he stood looking through the gas-lit 
window at the rows of new clogs — fresh and bright and 
clean and strong and, as the boys who wore them had so 
often told him, so “ gradely warm.” William would hang 
nothing outside his shop-door, so here there was no temp- 
tation to steal. He had walked away from the window 
again and again, trying to make up his mind, trying to be 
brave, trying to pocket his pride. He had looked at the 
matter from every point of view — his own, his mother’s, 
his sisters’, that of Ridingdale in general. Then he had 
seen William come into the shop from the little sitting-room 


II4 THE MESSENGER-BOY 

behind, and knew that in a few minutes the shutters would 
be up. 

Well, he had made the plunge and here he was — already 
out of the ranks of the factory hands, riding in the April 
sunshine on a glossy well-fed pony — entrusted with bills 
to pay — the envied messenger-boy of a prosperous firm ! 

He had passed through Timington and was riding lei- 
surely over the long and rather lonely stretch of road that 
lies between Timington and Hardlow, when he saw in 
front of him a figure that reminded him of his father. 
Now as a little lad Charlie had always preferred his father's 
company to that of his mother. In the Chittywick family, 
true parental love was almost unknown. The wonder is 
that filial love had any place at all. Peevish complaints and 
simulated hysterics on the part of a mother do not usually 
win a child’s affection; a mere tolerance however good- 
humoured, and occasionally indulgent, on the part of the 
father do not command a lasting love. 

Yet in a careless sort of way — just as careless, in fact, 
as that of the man himself — Charlie had at one time liked 
his father. Always there had been times when the boy 
knew that it was dangerous to go near him; fortunately 
these were generally the seasons when Charlie did not want 
to see him. Mr. Chittywick’s drink habit was of long 
standing — all the more deadly perhaps because, as his neigh- 
bours said, he was never known to be drunk, or sober. 
“ Mellowed with liquor,” as the wretched phrase is. Chitty- 
wick was the soul of generosity. Approached at the right 


THE MESSENGER-BOY 


US 

time of the day, Charlie had soon discovered that there was 
nothing his father would not give him — when he had the 
money. 

But two years of starvation and suffering, to say noth- 
ing of the increase of knowledge that must come to a boy 
in his teens, had brought about a change of feeling in 
regard to the father whose neglect of home and family 
had become a by-word. Anger indeed arose in the boy’s 
heart as he checked his pony and contemplated the tall- 
hatted, frock-coated figure in front of him. Father or no 
father, Charlie realized that the man he must needs speak 
to was a monster of selfishness. 

Boy-like, however, his anger died away when Mr. Chitty- 
wick took him by the hand and told him he was glad to see 
him. 

“ Come now, this is something like,” said Mr. Chitty- 
wick, patting the pony’s neck. “ I was hardly prepared 
for this, Charlie. You’re getting up in the world, if your 
father isn’t. They told me you were working in the fac- 
tory. In fact I should have called to see you if I had hap- 
pened to come round this way before. It’s not my beat, 
you see. There’s another agent on this road, only just 
now he happens to be laid up. Well now — tell me about 
yourself, my boy.” 

It was impossible for the lad to forget that the man walk- 
ing beside him was his father; impossible to forget that 
this father had often been very kind to him in the past; 


ii 6 THE MESSENGER-BOY 

impossible to forget that in years of plenty the ex-school- 
master had been generous and indulgent. 

So Charlie explained his new duties in great detail, and 
with something of the gladness that had come to him with 
the bright April morning. 

“ Capital ! ” exclaimed the father, “ first-rate ! So you 
don’t carry all your brass upon your clogs, Charlie. 
You’ve got plenty there,” he continued, laughing and tap- 
ping the boy’s toe-tips with his stick. “ And they trust you 
with quite big sums of money, eh Charlie ? ” 

“ It wasn’t very much this morning, father : only a pound 
or two. But Mr. Paleworthy told me I might sometimes 
have quite big bills to pay. You know, father, I had to get 
somebody to stand surety for me.” 

“ Indeed ! for how much ? ” The question was asked 
with an eagerness that Charlie did not notice. He was not 
watching his father’s face. 

“ Twenty pounds, I think. Something like that. Mr. 
Lethers did it for me.” 

Mr. Chittywick became suddenly silent. For some time 
he walked by Charlie’s pony without speaking. 

“ I’m afraid, father, I shall have to be trotting on — if you 
don’t mind. It must be getting on for twelve.” 

“ Just one minute, Charlie,” said the man. “ I’m very 
seedy this morning, and my firm has behaved shabby to- 
wards me. Couldn’t you lend me a shilling or two till I 
see you again ? ” 


THE MESSENGER-BOY 


ii 7 


Charlie's face flushed angrily as he put his hand in his 
pocket and took out some coppers. 

“ This is all I have in the world till next Saturday," said 
the boy, extending his hand. “ I paid William Lethers for 
these clogs last week — he wouldn't let me pay him before. 
I had only two shillings left then, and I gave them to 
mother." 

“Blast your mother!" the man burst forth in one of 
those sudden explosions of rage that come to the nerveless 
toper — “ Curse your mother, and you too ! ” 

And with this parental malediction ringing in his ears, 
Charlie rode forward to Hardlow. 


CHAPTER XII. 


TAKING ADVICE. 

Charlie could not keep back his tears as he told his 
grandmother of the encounter on the road with his father. 

“ Eh, my lad/’ she said, “ it’s just him all over. That’s 
just our William! He’s my son, and he’s your father, 
Charlie, but the truth’s the truth. He wa’ just t’ same 
as a little lad. An’ t’ older he got, t’ worse he got. It 
wa’ alis Self, Self, Self, wi’ him. Yer mother niver axed 
me ought about him, or I could a’ told her ’ow things ’ud 
be. A lad as treats his mother like he treated me, is sure 
to be a brute to his wife. I could a’ foretelled all this — 
as sure as if I was a prophet. He niver darkens my door 
now-a-days, and though he’s the only son I iver ’ad I dunna 
want to see him. My gels has all been a comfort to me, 
thank God; but him — well, lad, let’s talk about summat 
else.” 

She did not talk about anything else for some time to 
come, and Charlie heard things about his father that 
astonished and disgusted him. 

“ You mind when yer father started that there school? 
You wa’ only a little lad at t’ time, but you mind — don’t 
yer? Well, wheer d’ye think he got t’ money from? I 
know wheer he got it from. It was my poor ’usband’s 

118 


TAKING ADVICE 


1 19 

savings as started him. It wa’ money what we’d been 
savin’ iver since we was married. He borrowed it, o’ 
course. It was to bring us in ten per cent, he said. Yes, 
Charlie, yer poor granddad ’ad to go on workin’ at t’ fac- 
tory for years — long after he wa’ fit to do ought — to make 
up that money. I say ‘ make up,’ but o’ course he niver 
did make it up. If it warn’t for t’ bit o’ pension they ’lows 
me I wouldna have enough to live on, little as I want. 
Lucky we’d bought this bit of a ’ouse years afore.” 

“ I never knew about this, granny,” said Charlie. “ I 
knew that he’d borrowed money from Mr. Armstrong — a 
good deal, but I didn’t know he’d had anything from you.” 

“ Yes, he took in Mr. Armstrong nicely. He pretended 
to make him a partner or a shareholder, or somethin’. I 
don’t think the man ever saw a penny of his money again. 
But Armstrong is a rich man and my poor ’usband warnt. 
We’d nothing to start with but his wages. We was care- 
ful and savin’ and we put a bit away, and your father got 
’old of it and it all went — every shillin’. I don’t want to 
set a child against his own father, and that father my own 
son; but mark my words, Charlie — he’s got a dirty lane to 
go through for robbin’ his poor old parents.” 

Never before had the grandmother said more than a few 
words about his father, and Charlie very rightly gave her 
credit for much self-repression. He was sorry that he had 
unwittingly set her talking on so painful a subject. It was 
delightful to think that this side of the Dale was not in his 
father’s regular beat. Charlie thought it most unlikely 


120 


TAKING ADVICE 


that he would meet him again on the high-road to Hard- 
low ; if he did, he wondered a little what would be the best 
thing to do. Silly and foolish as his mother was, he would 
never again allow her to be cursed in his presence without 
making a strong protest. But what would that mean ? It 
would mean an altercation with a strong, a passionate, and 
a drunken man. Of what use to bandy words with a 
drunkard ? That at a certain stage of his habitual tipsiness 
his father could be both violent and cruel, Charlie well 
knew. 

When he went to the priest at Ridingdale on the follow- 
ing Saturday, the lad asked for advice. 

“ My poor boy,” said Father Connelly, “ you have a 
difficult part to play. I know few things more painful for 
a child than to have unworthy parents. You remember 
what I said to you when we were talking about the fourth 
commandment? You owe obedience to father and mother 
in all that is not sin. Moreover, you owe them a very spe- 
cial reverence and affection. The wish to stick up for your 
mother is the most natural thing in the world— is what any 
boy with the smallest spice of manliness about him would 
always do. But, my dear lad, mind how you do it. The 
‘ how 9 of a thing is most important. Don’t provoke your 

I 

father to violence of speech or action.” 

" He gets into a passion so quickly, Father. He always 
did.” 

“ I know, Charlie. People who drink in that way gen- 
erally do grow violent quickly. Watch him carefully. 


TAKING ADVICE 


121 


One thing is quite certain — under these circumstances you 
are not obliged to give him anything out of your poor little 
wages. If you have anything to spare, give it to your 
mother. She is not blameless, but she is much more weak 
than wicked. ,, 

" Suppose I overtake him on the road, Father — would it 
do for me to ride past and pretend not to see him ? ” 

“ I wouldn’t do that, my lad. Check your pony and say 
‘ Good-day ’ to him. Do it as nicely as you can, but don’t 
stop to chat with him. Your time is not our own, Charlie : 
you know that, don’t you? You are on business for your 
employers, and genuine business of that sort is the best 
possible excuse for riding on.” 

“ Fortunately,” said Charlie when he had thanked the 
priest for a piece of advice that he meant to follow, “ I 
don’t think it is likely that my father will go on that road 
very often.” 

“ So much the better,” said the priest. “ But now, 
whatever happens, don’t forget to pray for him.” 

Charlie determined not to say one word about his father 
to Mr. or Mrs. Lethers. There was no good in it, he 
argued, and though he freely told them all that concerned 
himself he would not mention that disturbing meeting on 
the high-road. He had plenty of nice things to say and he 
would say them. It wanted only a fortnight to Easter, and 
that would be a delightful time for him. Then Mr. Pale- 
worthy had told a clerk, who had told a junior, who, being 
a good-natured fellow (God bless him!), had repeated it to 


122 


TAKING ADVICE 


Charlie that — he was both smart and intelligent. In fact 
when the boy had gone into the chapel and made his con- 
fession — he had been going every fortnight since January 
— he put away all thought of his father, and feeling very 
peaceful and happy was just in the mood to promote happi- 
ness and peacefulness in others. 

To meet little Freddy Armstrong in the lane that led 
from the chapel to the village was, in the circumstances, de* 
lightful. Freddy greeted him with a cry of joy. 

“ I am so glad — so glad I met you, Charlie/’ the little 
boy said taking the other’s hand in both his own and cling- 
ing to it. 

“ And I’m glad to see you,” said Charlie smiling down 
upon the rosy little face and sparkling eyes. “ Haven’t 
seen you for an age ! ” 

“ O but I’m gladder than you, Charlie — ever so much. 
I’ve got somefing to tell you — somefing you’ll be glad to 
hear.” 

“Hurray! Let’s hear it, Freddy.” 

“ I’m going to Hardlow School after Easter. Faver said 
so. Muver wanted me to wait till after the summer holi- 
days, but faver says ‘ No, he’s older than his age and why 
not let him go just as the fine weather is coming on/ ” 

“ Freddy, that’s just grand.” 

“ Isn’t it, Charlie. And I’m sure to see you sometimes, 
aren’t I?” 

“ Sure to, Freddy.” 

“ And I can give you fings — can’t I ? ” 


TAKING ADVICE 


123 


“ No, old chap, you mustn’t do that. You see, nowa- 
days I don’t want things. I’m never hungry now, Freddy. 
And besides, you’ll want your lunch badly when you have 
to walk to Hardlow and back every day.” 

“ O but I’m going to have dinner at school wif the uffer 
boys. But you’d take an orange or an apple now and then 
— wouldn’t you ? Say yes, Charlie ! ” 

Charlie laughed at the little fellow’s earnestness. 

“ Thanks, Freddy, ever so much. Perhaps now and then. 
But if I’m not careful I shall get fat. Don’t you see how 
fat I’m getting?” 

“ No,” said the little boy, looking Charlie up and down. 
“ You look very nice, but you’re not fat. I’m fat. Faver 
says so. He says the walk to Hardlow will do me good.” 

“ You’re plump, old chap, that’s what you are. Not fat. 
You’re as plump as a little partridge. But the walk won’t 
do you any harm. I hope the lads will be nice to you. 
There’ll be quite a gang of Ridingdale boys going to Hard- 
low soon. Three of the Joyces go now, and two Romptons 
started after Christmas. Then there’s the Methodist min- 
ister’s son, and two of your minister’s lads, and young 
Nuttlebig — that fellow’s a caution! — and lawyer Hipkins’ 
sons, and — 

“ Tommy Kelverston,” put in Freddy. “ You know 
Kelverston the confectioner?” 

“ Rather ! And there’s young Harwood the grocer’s son, 
and Johnny Stevens from the Ridingdale Arms. You’ll 
have plenty of company, Freddy.” 


124 


TAKING ADVICE 


“ Yes,” with a little sigh. “ I don’t fink I like all of 

ff 

em. 

“ Dare say not. Some of ’em are pretty rough chaps. 
But they’re sure to be kind to you. You’ll tell me if they’re 
not — won’t you, Freddy? ” 

The little boy looked up into the face of his hero and 
protector with a smile of confidence. 

“ There’s not one of those chaps I couldn’t lick if — ” he 
was going to say “ If I liked,” but remembering his recent 
confession and the effort he was making to be good, he 
substituted — “ If I were forced.” “ And you know, 
Freddy, one is sometimes forced to fight. Not often, of 
course. But if I saw any fellow bullying you I’d go for 
him like a shot. By-the-way, does Skinny Bobington ever 
bother you now, Freddy? ” 

“ I fink he’s left Ridingdale, Charlie. Perhaps he goes 
to work. I see him sometimes on Sundays, but I’m wif 
faver then.” 

“ Well, that’s all right,” said Charlie, as they came to 
the end of the lane where they had to take different direc- 
tions. “ We must say ‘ good-bye ’ now, mustn’t we? ” 

But the little lad was clinging to Charlie’s hand. 

“ I want to say somefing, Charlie. May I ? ” 

“Of course, Freddy. Why not?” 

“ I — I don’t quite know how. It’s somefing very partic- 
ular, Charlie.” 

“ Well, say it, old chap! ” 

“ You won’t — you won’t be — ” 


TAKING ADVICE 


125 


“ Do you mean I won’t be offended ? Course I won’t, 
Freddy.” 

“ No I didn’t mean that. I knew you wouldn’t be of- 
fended. ’Twasn’t that. I mean you won’t — or at least 
you needn’t be — I mean you won’t go to — ” 

The child could not bring it out. Releasing Charlie’s 
hand, Freddy began to dive into an inner pocket of his 
jacket. Presently he brought out a piece of writing-paper, 
very much creased and crumpled. 

“ This will tell you, Charlie. Please read it when I’m 
gone. I couldn’t say it.” With a final squeeze of Charlie’s 
hand Freddy ran off at full speed. 

Charlie opened the paper with a smile, saying to himself, 
“ What a funny, old-fashioned little chap he is ! ” 

Twilight was coming on, but he could easily read the big 
if rather irregular writing on the paper. 

“ Kathlick’s need not go to hel cans the minnister said so, 
for Christ says I came not to call the just hut sinners to 
repentance , F. Armstrong ” 

Charlie spelt through the paper two or three times before 
he refolded it and placed it in his prayer-book. He smiled, 
but his eyes were moist. 

“ Bless his good little heart ! ” Charlie said to himself as 
he turned into the High Street. “ Somebody’s been talking 
to him about me, of course. And I suppose they told him I 
was already damned. Dear little chap! That would hurt 
him like anything. Freddy’s love is of the right sort — the 
kind that Father Connolly was talking to me about last 


126 


TAKING ADVICE 


week. And it’s so funny Freddy should have written some 
of the very words that the priest said to me when I first 
went to him and told him what a bad lot I was. ‘ You are 
just the very one Christ came to save/ he said. ‘ He came 
not to call the just, but sinners.’ Perhaps God doesn’t 
want me to forget those words.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


FOUR MONTHS LATER. 

" Come on, Flossy, old chap, you’ve got to go to Riding- 
dale whether you like it or not.” Charlie was talking to 
the pony. “ Yes, I dare say you would like to stop in 
this nice cool stable; but then, you see, you can’t. Hot 
weather makes you lazy, doesn’t it? Never mind, Flossy, 
I shan’t ride you hard this afternoon. You shall take your 
own time. Master says we needn’t hurry the least bit. 
It’s too hot for that.” 

Flossy was not a young pony, but he was a serviceable 
and a trusty one, and Charlie was proud of him. His coat 
shone like Mr. Paleworthy’s silk hat. The roomy stable 
was delightfully cool and clean. Outside, the hot August 
sunshine lay heavily. 

“ You’ve got gold and bank-notes to carry to-day, Flossy 
— lots of ’em. We’re going to pay for your grub, old 
chap, and the straw you lie on. A pretty penny that comes 
to every three months! Yes, I know you don’t eat all the 
oats and hay and stuff. There are those big brothers of 
yours that live next door, aren’t there? All the same, 
Flossy, you’re got a decent appetite for a little ’un.” 

Having this particular stable all to himself, and the little 

saddle-room next door, Charlie had acquired a regular habit 

127 


128 


FOUR MONTHS LATER 


of talking aloud to the pony, half persuading himself that 
the beast listened and understood. It never occurred to the 
boy that a two-legged listener might be within earshot. 

“ Now then, Flossy, you're all right," the boy went on, 
as he finished buckling the belly-band of the saddle. “ I'll 
make myself ready in no time." 

Going to the saddle-room he gave a hasty brush to his 
clogs, which were already in a high state of polish, washed 
his hands and face, and turned down his shirt sleeves, and 
put on a clean white linen jacket and a straw hat. Then he 
took out of his pocket a handful of papers. 

“ Yes," he said to himself, “ better call at Marson’s on 
my way there. It's the biggest bill of the lot. The others 
are all in Ridingdale. Glad there’s not much silver this 
time. These linen pockets are not very strong, and a bag 
bulges." He referred to a list containing the names of 
the people he had to see and the amount due to each. 
“ Yes," he continued as he refolded the paper, “ it’s a lot 
of money this time. Nearly twenty pound ! ’’ 

It was like Flossy to want to go off at a smart trot, but 
Charlie would not hear of it. 

“ There’s lots of time, Floss, so none of that. Didn’t 
Mr. Paleworthy say we’d got the whole afternoon before 
us, eh? If it comes on to rain you shall trot as hard as 
you like, but — well I’m not sure. We might have a storm, 
of course." 

In the office, and in the yard too, thunder had been freely 
prophesied for that indefinite time known as “ sooner or 


FOUR MONTHS LATER 


129 


later.” It was indeed hot enough for anything, and the 
stillness of field and high-road was profound. 

“ If it does rain,” Charlie was thinking, “ I hope it will 
come on while we are at Marson’s.” 

Most people liked to go to Farmer Marson’s house. It 
lay just a little off the high-road, about half a mile on the 
Hardlow side of Timington. You turned out of the high- 
way, passed through two meadows and found yourself at a 
big farmhouse — whose stack-yard was a marvel and whose 
orchard was prodigious. Charlie thanked his stars that, for 
some reason or other, this was one of the orchards he had 
never robbed. Once before, he had paid a bill there for the 
firm, and the memory of Mrs. Marson’s hospitality and 
kindness was a happy one. She had not only forced him 
into a chair and made him eat a “ nuncheon ” which re- 
moved from him the smallest desire for dinner, but she had 
given him a half-crown — for himself. He found out after- 
wards that she had never offered his predecessor more than 
a shilling. The matter had afforded him a good deal of 
pleasure. He had had so few friends since his father’s 
failure, and had made for himself so many enemies of a 
certain kind, that he was very slow indeed to think that 
anybody except the Lethers and little Armstrong could 
really care for him. Yet without a doubt Mrs. Marson had 
been very nice. 

The truth was that the good motherly woman had pitied 
his pale face and admired his quiet respectful manner and 
general air of freshness and tidiness. It would indeed have 


130 


FOUR MONTHS LATER 


been hard to say whether the pony or his rider were the 
better groomed. Charlie was one of those boys who at 
their worst never look really untidy; now that his rather 
small but neat figure was well clad he looked much superior 
to the average messenger-boy. There were many questions 
Mrs. Marson would have liked to put to him; but he had 
seemed a little embarrassed when she asked him if he were 
a Hardlow boy, and so she had forborne any further cate- 
chism. She knew very few people in Ridingdale, and only 
went “ into town ” for Sunday Mass and Saturday’s mar- 
ket. Most of her friends and relations, and those of her 
husband, lived beyond Hardlow, and though she and Mr. 
Marson always exchanged a word or two with the Lethers 
and several other Catholics whom they met at the chapel 
door, they were not very intimate with any Ridingdale folk. 

The hot dusty high-road looked curiously empty and 
lonely. There was not a soul in sight as Charlie turned 
the corner of the short cross-road that led from Hardlow. 
For half a mile or so there was very little shade: further 
on, an almost continuous row of trees threw their shadows 
half across the highway. In distant fields, to the right 
and to. the left, men were reaping. 

Flossy soon lost his inclination to break into a trot, and 
Charlie rode him with a loose rein. 

“ We’ll have our little canter coming back,” the boy said 
as he patted him and then broke into a whistle — remember- 
ing that in an hour or two the shadows would lie right 
across the road. Now that he was in motion and on the 


I 


FOUR MONTHS LATER 131 

pony s back he was sensible of a slight breeze, and its re- 
freshing coolness made him thankful. 

Two thoughts worried him a little as he rode along. 
Last Saturday he had found his mother more tearful than 
usual. It was some time however before she told him that 
they were under notice to leave the house in High Street. 
The boy thought they ought to have left it long ago, but he 
did not say this. He gave her the few shillings that he 
could badly spare, knowing very well that in comparison 
with her debts it was like pouring a glass of water into the 
sea. But lately she had clung to him a little more ,and for 
that he felt grateful. From his sisters he expected noth- 
ing but abuse, and he usually received it. 

The other thought puzzled more than it worried him. 
Not only had his father been in and about Hardlow several 
times within the last fortnight, but he had twice called at 
the factory. Each time Charlie had been out. Since his 
first encounter with the man last April they had met only 
once: the second meeting had been anything but a satis- 
factory one. As on the first occasion Charlie had over- 
taken his father and had given him pleasant greeting. 
“ You’re just the fellow I wanted to see,” Mr. Chittywick 
began, laying his hand on the bridle rein. “ I’m sorry, 
father,” Charlie had replied quickly, “ but I can’t stop. I 
must be back at the office before one o’clock.” A sharp 
tug at the bridle had the double effect of throwing off the 
man’s nerveless hand and of starting Flossy into a quick 
trot. It was fortunate for Charlie that the trot was a quick 


132 


FOUR MONTHS LATER 


one. A stone came crashing after him but it fell short — 
startling but not hitting the pony. Foul language had fol- 
lowed the stone, but the rider was soon out of hearing. 

One thing the boy had noted before he rode on; his 
father had lost much of his former decent appearance. The 
tall hat was, in a way, too glossy; it was also battered. 
The black frock-coat was dusty and seamy and worn: the 
trousers were frayed and baggy ; the man’s linen was dirty. 
Mr. Chittywick was beginning to look the drunken spend- 
thrift he really was. 

The thought of all this saddened the lad as he rode along ; 
it robbed him of a little of the joy of the day and of his 
errand. In a grateful sort of way, he had felt proud to be 
trusted with what seemed to him such a large sum of money 
— certainly the biggest amount he had ever handled. How 
unlucky it would be for him, he thought, if his father be- 
gan to haunt Hardlow and the factory ! His own past was 
deplorable enough; the past and present of his father were 
as bad as they could be. What would Mr. Paleworthy 
think of the man who was never sober, and who had so 
narrowly escaped prosecution for fraudulent bankruptcy? 

But why the thought of his old enemy Skinny Bobington 
should keep coming into his mind that afternoon, Charlie 
could not imagine. For some time past Skinny had seemed 
to have some irregular kind of employment at Hardlow; 
Charlie had met him rather frequently. They had not 
renewed hostilities : Charlie saw no reason why they should 
do so. Skinny was a bully, and Charlie had more than 


FOUR MONTHS LATER 


133 


once thrashed him, but he bore no ill-will towards the un- 
gainly lout who lay in wait to frighten children and ter- 
rorize little school-boys. Of course there were certain 
things that Skinny knew about the other — things that could 
damage Charlie's reputation in Hardlow; but then, who 
would care very much for what was said by a lad whose 
own reputation was notoriously bad, and who had already 
served a term of imprisonment? 

It must of course be a hallucination, but as Charlie rose 
for a moment on his stirrups to look over the hedge he was 
riding along he thought he saw Skinny Bobington standing 
in the middle distance of the field. To convince himself 
that he was mistaken, he stopped the pony and stood for 
some time looking over the hedge. There was not a soul in 
sight. To be sure there was a clump of trees not very far 
from the spot where he thought he had seen Skinny, but — 
well, it must be all nonsense, he told himself. Perhaps the 
heat, or the amount of money in his pockets, was making 
him a little nervous. Luckily, he thought, in another ten 
minutes or so he would be at the gate that led to Marson’s 
farm. Once there he would rid himself of by far the great- 
er part of his cash. 

“ £o now, Flossy," he said to his pony, “ you can stretch 
your legs a bit if you like. No, don't overdo it, old man," 
he continued as in response to a gentle touch of the boy's 
wooden heels the pony broke into a canter. “ There’s lots 
of time, Flossy. Oh, very well, if you like it I don't 
mind!" 


134 


FOUR MONTHS LATER 


Flossy seemed to like it very much and his rider gave 
him rein. Charlie enjoyed it too. It was still shady, and 
the rapid motion stirred the air into coolness. Disturbing 
thoughts left the lad’s mind as the pony quickened its pace 
and sent the warm blood coursing swiftly through the rider’s 
body. Flossy broke into a little gallop and Charlie did not 
check him. 

Then with awful suddenness, there was a stoppage and 
a crash. Pony and rider were both thrown violently to the 
earth ! 


Motionless on the high-road lay Charlie Chittywick. The 
white dust was already soaking up a thin stream of crim- 
son. Its fore-legs hopelessly entangled in a mesh of thin 
wire, the animal lay on its side plunging violently, its hind- 
leg keeping up a convulsive and an incessant kicking. 

But pony and rider were not alone. From opposite sides 
of the road two figures had run to drag Charlie out of the 
reach of the pony’s heels. 

“ The young devil’s broken his neck, I’m afraid,” said 
Mr. Chittywick. His shaking hands were already in 

Charlie’s breast-pocket. “ No, Skinny, you get away, 

you! I’ll do this. You keep a sharp lookout!” The 
trembling drunkard had already transferred the gold and 
bank-notes to his own pocket. “ But wind up that wire, 
Skinny! Keep clear of that pony!” 

Very still, and with closed eyes, lay the messenger-boy. 


FOUR MONTHS LATER 


135 


About his head a little moat of blood was slowly forming 
itself. Mr. Chittywick’s face had grown almost as white as 
his son’s. 

“ Somebody comm’ ! ” — Skinny called out in a hissing 
whisper. 

“ Which way?” 

“ O’er t’ meadows from Marson’s ! ” 

Mr. Chittywick said no more in response. Stooping 
down, he crept back towards the high hedge behind which 
he had been concealed for the last hour. As soon as he 
found himself in the field, he buttoned his frock coat about 
him and made a bee-line for Hardlow Station. Swiftly and 
noiselessly he ran unseen by his confederate. Skinny had 
taken his post behind the hedge on the opposite side of the 
road. 

And on the white high-road lay the still bleeding body 
of Charlie Chittywick. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


a father’s crime. 

Just at the very moment that Flossy succeeded in dis- 
entangling his forelegs from the thin wire that had been 
stretched across the road, Skinny Bobington became aware 
of two very unpleasant facts. One was that Mr. Chittywick 
had made off, and without giving him his promised share of 
the robbery. The other fact was that not only was a cart 
being driven from Marson’s farm down to the high-road, 
but that along the road from Hardlow a carriage was rap- 
idly coming nearer to the scene of the tragedy. Skinny’s 
retreat by the road was thus completely cut off. To com- 
plete his discomfiture, the pony regained his feet and set off 
in the direction of Timington — blood trickling from its 
wounded fore-leg at every step. 

There seemed to be only one thing to do, and the 
frightened lout did it: his only chance of escape was for 
the present to lie low. He could not be sure that he had 
not already been seen by the occupants of the trap that was 
driving from Marson’s : he determined not to be recognized 
by the people in the carriage — which was sure to pull up, for 
Charlie’s body was stretched across the middle of the road. 
Moreover, loose coils of wire were lying about, and if the 

136 


A FATHER’S CRIME 


1 37 


carriage horses got their feet entangled, another catastrophe 
might be expected. In the confusion and excitement of 
that, the young villain told himself, it would be easy to get 
away. But he very much hoped that the farm trap would 
turn down towards Timington when it reached the road, 
and not towards Hardlow. The hedge was not a very 
thick one, and on the field side it had no ditch. Skinny 
lay flat down and awaited complications. As the carriage 
approached he just allowed himself to look up for a mo- 
ment and caught sight of Colonel Ruggerson’s coachman. 

Very frequently afterwards the Colonel was heard to say 
that he thanked God for giving him a coachman with a 
head on his shoulders. Some distance off the man had 
seen an object lying across the road : when both he and the 
footman recognized it as a body the driver pulled up. His 
delicate mistress was in the open carriage. “ Tell the mas- 
ter quietly that there’s something wrong ahead’/ he said - 
to the footman, “ and ask him if I shall drive back a bit.” 

" By all means,” said the Colonel getting out of the 
carriage. “ I’ll just go forward, my dear,” he said to his 
wife. “ Probably nothing very serious. Thomas,” he 
commanded the footman, “ you come with me.” 

The trap from the farm had already reached the road 
and had not turned off for Timington. As the Colonel 
and his footman came up to the unconscious Charlie, Mr. 
and Mrs. Marson were jogging towards the scene of the 
robbery — mildly wondering whatever could be the matter. 


138 


A FATHER’S CRIME 


They were driving out to tea at the house of a farmer- 
relation who lived just beyond Hardlow. 

“ Stop ! ” called out the Colonel as the trap approached. 
“ Don’t come any nearer ! ” He and his footman were 
rapidly clearing away the lengths of broken wire. 

“ Come on now ! ” shouted the Colonel as he knelt down 
in the dust beside Charlie. “ Thank God ! ” he exclaimed 
excitedly, “ he’s still alive! Yes, he’s breathing! Don’t 
you come, Mrs. Marson, let your husband get out. Yes, I 
can feel the beat of his pulse ! ” 

“ John,” commanded Mrs. Marson as she descended 
heavily from the trap, “ drive into Ridingdale as hard as 
you can and bring Dr. Nuttlebig.” 

" Why couldn’t you do that and let your husband get 
out? ” asked the Colonel testily. “ You’ll only faint or — or 
something.” 

“Where’s your carriage?” demanded Mrs. Marson of 
the Colonel — utterly ignoring his remonstrance. 

“ Just up the road.” 

“ Then send it into Hardlow for Dr. Brown.” 

“ But Mrs. Ruggerson is in it,” he was beginning : a 
look from Mrs. Marson checked him. 

“ You needn’t frighten her, man. Can’t the coachman 
leave her at the Cedars — or somewhere ? ” 

With wonderful submission the Colonel gave the order to 
his footman. 

“ Very sensible suggestion, Mrs. Marson. We’re just 
half way between Ridingdale and Hardlow.” 


A FATHER’S CRIME 


139 


“ Get some water ! ” she ordered. 

It became perfectly evident to the Colonel that this case 
was in the hands of Mrs. Marson — very capable hands 
too, if he had only remembered; but he was somewhat 
excited. 

“ Nay, nay ! ” she called out as he began to march up 
the road in search of water, “ there’s none that way. 
You’ll have to go through this hedge. There’s a pond in 
the corner of the meadow.” 

To the utter detriment of the gown she reserved for 
summer tea-parties, Mrs. Marson was kneeling over Char- 
lie, one hand on his pulse, the other raising his head ever so 
little from the ground. The blood had ceased to flow from 
the wound in the forehead, but she greatly feared that to 
move him would be to set the life-flood running afresh. 

“ Thank God ! ” she exclaimed, raising her eyes for a 
moment, “ there’s somebody else coming. Well, they’ll be 
useful.” 

There was somebody going too. In passing through the 
hedge the Colonel had not seen the prostrate Skinny; the 
youth knew that he would be discovered when the old sol- 
dier returned. He realized that this was his last chance. 
He must make a dash for liberty. 

“ Who’s that? ” called out the Colonel in the tones of a 
drill-master. He was returning with his white tall hat filled 
with water. “ Stop, sir ! ” he thundered at the top of his 
voice. “ Halt ! ” 

But Skinny had not the smallest intention of halting. 


140 


A FATHER’S CRIME 


“ Stop him ! ” yelled the Colonel as he hurried towards 
the hedge along which the youth was flying. “ Stop that 
fellow ! ” 

He was shouting on the mere chance of being heard by 
somebody in the distance: he could not see that half a 
dozen Ridingdale lads were coming down the road. As he 
crept through the gap they were in sight. 

“ Catch that chap ! ” he called out to the boys as he put 
down his water-filled hat by Mrs. Marson’s side. “ After 
him all of you/* he commanded as he advanced to meet 
them. “ Bring him back here to me ! He’s running by 
the side of this hedge. It’s the fellow they call Skinny.” 

Like one boy they turned back and began the chase. 

“ There’s been devil’s work here this afternoon,” said the 
Colonel to Mrs. Marson as he knelt opposite to her by 
Charlie’s side ; “ and depend upon it that villain knows 
something about it.” 

“ Thank God! here’s the doctor ” exclaimed Mrs. Mar- 
son. “ In his own trap, too. My husband must have 
caught him up on the road.” 

Two traps were raising a cloud of dust in the near 
distance, but the doctor was in advance of the farmer. 

It was some time before the usually chatty doctor uttered 
a word. 

“ Pretty bad spill ! ” he remarked at length. “ Might 
have been worse, though. Collar-bone’s broken. And a 
leg. But this head-wound is the worst. Pony kicked him, 
I suppose? How did it happen? ” 


A FATHER’S CRIME 


141 

“ Haven’t a notion at present,” the Colonel said. “ But 
look here ! ” — pointing to the wire that now lay in a heap 
under the hedge. 

“ That means villainy ! Dastardly business ! Has he 
been robbed ? ” 

“ We haven’t examined him yet. We were afraid to 
touch him lest the wound would open afresh. It’s only 
the congealed blood that stops it.” 

“ Quite right,” said the doctor. “ And now whose, or 
where, is the nearest house ? ” 

“ Mine, of course,” put in Mrs. Marson. “ Can he be 
moved? ” 

“If it’s done with the greatest possible care, yes,” replied 
the doctor. “ But are you sure you can take him in ? He 
won’t be well this week, remember ! ” 

“John,” called out Mrs. Marson to her husband, “come 
and help us to lift this child ! ” 

“Wait, wait! Mrs. Marson. Don’t be in too great a 
hurry. My trap is the lowest. I’ll just take the seat out. 
And I’ve got a rug that we can lift him upon.” 

Never since the earliest years of his babyhood had 
Charlie been handled so tenderly. Each of the four people 
took a corner of the rug, and with the utmost gentleness 
lifted the unconscious lad into the low basket-trap. 

“ Now if Mr. Marson will lead my nag very slowly we 
will get on,” said the doctor. “ The Colonel, perhaps, will 
follow with your trap.” 

“ Lend it to me, Mr. Marson,” said the Colonel, jump- 


142 


A FATHER’S CRIME 


ing into it. “ I want to see if those lads have caught that 
scoundrel, Skinny.” 

Slower than a funeral procession moved the doctor’s trap 
towards the farm: faster than the chariot of the Son of 
Nimshi drove the Colonel in the direction of Hardlow. 

But he had not to drive very far. Walking in a compact 
body and at a swinging pace came the boys, and in their 
midst was Skinny Bobington, securely held by the two 
biggest Joyces, strapping fellows of sixteen and eighteen. 
One glance at the lout assured the Colonel that if he had 
not caught the principal ruffian he had at least secured a 
confederate. 

“ He said he’d tell us all about it, sir, if we’d let him go,” 
the elder Joyce remarked when the prisoner had been 
handed into the trap : “ we didn’t make him any promise 
— did we, lads? ” 

There was a chorus of “ Not likely ! ” and “ ’Course 
not!” 

“ Quite right,” said the Colonel. “If he’s got any sense 
he’ll keep his mouth shut for the present. He’ll be in the 
Hardlow lock-up in a few minutes.” 

Sitting at the back of the trap tightly held by his two 
captors, Skinny began to whimper : 

“I niver touched him. Wish I may die if I did! I’ve 
got nowt on me : you can sarch me if y’ like. Owd Chitty- 
wick copped all t’ money and sloped.” 

" Old Chittywick!” exclaimed the astounded Colonel as 
he checked the horse. “Good God! You don’t mean to 


A FATHER’S CRIME 


143 


say but there, I’ve no right to cross-examine you at 
present. You’d better shut up.” 

It was with considerable difficulty that the Colonel 
refrained from asking questions. The thing seemed too 
monstrous for belief. That the elder Chittywick was a 
dishonest man and a drunkard was well known : that with 
violence he should rob his own son on the highway seemed 
past belief. 

“ I shall be here for some little time,” said the Colonel to 
the two Joyces, once they had given Skinny into the charge 
of the police. “ You’ll take the trap back to Marson’s, 
won’t you? And if you will kindly call at the Chestnuts 
and tell Mrs. Ruggerson that I will join her in half an hour 
or so, I shall be much obliged.” 

At the Colonel’s instigation the police at once made 
inquiries at Hardlow Station. Fortune had seemed to 
favour Mr. Chittywick. He had just caught the 3.55 train 
— at any rate, a breathless man, trembling and exhausted 
with running, and one whose description tallied with that 
given of him by the Colonel, had flung himself into a car- 
riage just as the train moved off. The train was for 
“ Liverpool way.” 

“ Don’t spare the telegraph,” the Colonel urged the po- 
lice. “ He’s making for Liverpool you may be sure. He’ll 
be on board a New York boat in an hour or two. While 
you telegraph I’ll go and see the factory manager and find 
out how much money the poor lad had about him.” 

News of the catastrophe had just reached Mr. Pale- 


144 


A FATHER’S CRIME 


worthy. A farm-lad from Timington had caught Flossy 
and brought him back to the factory stables. Mr. Pale- 
worthy’s inquiries after the injured messenger were mingled 
with groans over the lasting disgrace to the firm. The 
Colonel said something that sounded like “ Hang the Firm,” 
and bade Mr. Paleworthy be thankful that the lad’s neck 
was not broken. 

“As it is, I expect it’s touch and go,” he went on. 
“ How long he’d been lying there before I came up, I 
haven’t an idea. All I know is that he’d lost more blood 
than a lad of his physique can afford to lose.” 

The Colonel said nothing to Mr. Paleworthy about the 
elder Chittywick. 

“ We’ve arrested a youth who, I’m pretty sure, knows all 
about it, and he’s now in the Hardlow lock-up. There may 
be another arrest before long. How much money was the 
lad carrying? Eighteen or nineteen pounds, you say? 
Hum ! Just so ! Well, I must call at the Police Office again 
and then join my wife.” 


CHAPTER XV. 


HEARING THE NEWS. 

Half an hour later the Colonel’s carriage turned off the 
high-road and drove up to Marson’s farm. 

“ He opened his eyes a few minutes ago,” said Mrs. 
Marson hurrying out into the hall to meet him, “ but he’s 
gone off again. The doctor has driven into Ridingdale to 
get various things. He’s coming back for the night. I’m 
almost glad Dr. Brown was out. The child will be all 
right in Dr. Nuttlebig’s hands.” 

“ And in yours ” said the Colonel. “ It’s very good of 
you, I’m sure.” 

“ Just common charity — that’s all,” Mrs. Marson re- 
joined. 

“ Perhaps I’d better not see him, just now. I’ve kept 
Mrs. Ruggerson waiting so long. But I shall ride over 
after dinner.” 

“ My husband has just gone off to fetch Father Con- 
nelly, but he’ll hardly be back before eight o’clock. It’s 
such a long way, and of course John may not find him at 
home.” 

“ Good gracious ! I’d quite forgotten that the lad’s a 
Catholic. ’Course he is ! ” 

“ He’s been regular enough at Mass for the last eight or 
i45 


146 


HEARING THE NEWS 


nine months,” said Mrs. Marson, the tears coming into her 
eyes as she spoke. “ And at Communion. John and I 
have noticed it.” 

“ So he has — so he has, now I come to think of it. You 

see, he had been such a however, poor lad, I hope we 

shall save his life.” 

“ We’re going to have a good try,” Mrs. Marson re- 
joined as the Colonel made for his carriage. 

It was nearing six o’clock. Big clouds were gathering 
in the distance over Hardlow and the Colonel hoped that he 
and his wife might reach home before the storm overtook 
them. 

Within the farmhouse Mrs. Marson set open every pos- 
sible door and window, for the evening was hot with that 
late summer heat which only a strong breeze can abate. 

Very still and white lay Charlie on- a sofa of a down- 
stairs sitting-room — breathing more evenly and regularly 
now and making Mrs. Marson hopeful that his unconscious- 
ness might be that of a deep and healing sleep. She had 
taken off his clogs, otherwise he lay just as she had found 
him, his linen jacket and white collar plentifully soaked 
with blood. Two servant-maids came and went at Mrs. 
Marson’s bidding; she herself would scarcely leave him for 
an instant. Rosary in hand she watched, and prayed for 
the speedy coming of the priest. 

Little by little the room darkened, and then through the 
open windows came the ominous pat-pat of the rain-drops 


HEARING THE NEWS 


14 7 


that precede a summer storm. Over the valley to the south 
lightning had long been flashing. 

The storm broke with sudden and frightening fury. 
Mrs. Marson thanked God for it. Already the temperature 
had fallen. A quick strong breeze sprang up, and the 
roses that wreathed the latticed windows dashed their heads 
against the glass, shedding a thousand petals upon the 
flooded soil. 

Nearly five miles beyond Hardlow, Mr. Marson was 
battling with the storm, his somewhat spirited horse show- 
ing fright at the lightning and making the long journey a 
thing of difficulty. Sitting in silence beside the farmer 
was Father Connelly bearing the Blessed Sacrament. To 
Mr. Marson in his anxiety it seemed as though the powers 
of Hell were trying to hinder the priest in his sacred task, 
for the nearer they got to Hardlow the more heavily fell 
the rain, the more vividly flashed the lightning. 

At about seven o’clock, in the very height of the storm, 
Dr. Nuttlebig returned to the farm. Mrs. Marson had little 
enough to report; but the doctor seemed well pleased with 
his patient’s pulse. 

It was inevitable that the news should reach Ridingdale 
in an exaggerated form. “ Charlie Chittywick’s pony had 
been found riderless at Timington : Charlie himself lay dead 
upon the road.” This was the report that reached the 
Miss Chittywicks as they sat at tea in Miss Rippell’s back 
parlour. 


148 


HEARING THE NEWS 


Their first impulse was to rush off and break the news to 
their mother; from this they were dissuaded by the prac- 
tical and kind-hearted Miss Rippell. An hour later the 
wisdom of waiting was demonstrated. Colonel Ruggerson 
called at the stationer’s shop and gave as hopeful a version 
of the matter as was consistent with truth. 

“ Everything depends upon the amount of injury done to 
the brain,” he said, “ and Dr. Nuttlebig may be able to 
report upon the case in an hour or two.” 

Mrs. Chittywick received the news with curious com- 
posure. She was sorry, of course, and shed a tear or two, 
but she was not nearly so disturbed by this very serious 
accident as she had been by Charlie’s getting work in a 
factory. She was pre-occupied too with her own griefs. 
Three days hence the furniture of her house was to be sold. 
The girls were looking out for a small, and of course a 
genteel, cottage. 

“ It really seems like a judgment upon Charlie,” Mrs. 
Chittywick remarked after a time. “If he hadn’t gone to 
that wretched factory this wouldn’t have happened.” 

“ Well, we can’t have him in here, that’s flat,” declared 
Maud. “ We’ve got quite trouble enough without having 
him to look after. And the cottage we’re thinking of tak- 
ing simply wouldn’t hold him. There’s only a bed-room 
apiece for the three of us — though how we’re going to 
furnish them godness only knows.” 

Yes, these pretentious and lazy girls could hear of their 
brother’s accident — an accident, the Colonel hinted, that 


HEARING THE NEWS 


149 


might prove fatal — without being greatly moved. On the 
morrow they heard an item of news that drove every other 
thought from their mind. 

How it reached Ridingdale nobody could say, but long- 
before Monday all Ridingdale knew that Mr. Chittywick 
had been arrested in Liverpool and was being brought back 
to Hardlow on a charge of highway robbery with violence. 
Some argued that the crime ^would prove to be one of 
attempted murder. For the present, the Miss Chittywicks 
made it their chief duty to keep the news from their mother. 
For themselves, they did not, and would not believe it. 
There was some wretched conspiracy against their father, 
they argued. The rumour had been started by somebody 
who wanted to injure him, they told Miss Rippell and one 
another, and somebody would be prosecuted with the ut- 
most rigour of the law. Late in the afternoon, however, 
their complacency was disturbed by hearing a scrap of dia- 
logue that came in through their open window from the 
High Street. It reached the ears of their mother. 

“ Well, it’s all up wi’ owd Chittywick, I reckon.” 

“ En they got ’im at ’ Ardlow yit ? ” 

“ Ay, that they ’ev. I’ve joost bin talkin’ to a chap what 
saw ’em bring ’im from ’Ardlow Station. Two bobbies i’ 
plain clothes ’ad got him. Folks i’t street ’issed at ’im.” 

“ He’ll be gittin it pretty ’ot, I reckon.” 

“ Yo may be sure o’ that. And sarve ’im reet! ” 


HEARING THE NEWS 


150 

Meanwhile, the injured boy was lying in great pain on a 
bed that had been prepared for him in the ground-floor 
room at the farm. 

Between seven and eight o’clock on the previous evening 
he had recovered consciousness. Half an hour later Mr. 
Marson and Father Connelly had arrived, both wet to the 
skin. The storm was passing over and the sufferer re- 
covered his senses in a temperature that was cool and 
restful. He smiled a little and his eyes grew brighter as the 
priest put on his stole and sat down by the couch. The last 
Rites were administered to the now distant diapason of the 
thunder and the far gleam of the white sheet-lightning. 

Charlie lay very still after this, though Mrs. Marson 
could see that now and then his lips moved with prayer. 
Once she distinctly heard him whisper, “ My Jesus ! I’m so 
sorry ! ” Father Connelly knelt by him for some time, say- 
ing and suggesting prayers, and in half an hour or so the 
sufferer was sleeping a somewhat fitful sleep. About this 
time the Colonel paid his promised visit. 

Long before midnight Dr. Nuttlebig declared that there 
was certainly no immediate danger, and tried to induce 
Mrs. Marson to go to bed. 

“ Go to bed yourself, doctor,” she replied. “ I know 
now what to do, and if there is any change I’ll call you. 
I’m not going to bed, I tell you.” 

The doctor laughed. He had been up late the night 
before and was very weary. 

“ I can be just as obstinate as you,” he replied. “ But 


HEARING THE NEWS 


151 

I'll go into the next room and take a short nap in one of 
those big low chairs.” 

Father Connelly declared that one of those easy chairs 
was to him better than a bed, and in spite of Mrs. Marson’s 
remonstrances he would have spent the night in the draw- 
ing-room if the doctor had not commanded him to go to 
bed. He had told the Colonel that he hoped to say Mass 
at Ridingdale in the morning. 

“ You were wet through, you know,” said Dr. Nuttlebig, 
“ and your clothes will scarcely be dry by to-morrow morn- 
ing. Mr. Marson’s suit is quite big enough for you, but — 
well, the fact is you must go to bed.” 

Dawn shone on a very suffering patient. Scarcely any 
part of the boy’s body was free from pain. It was of the 
utmost importance that he should lie still — for the sake of 
the broken collar-bone and, as it turned out, the compound 
fracture of the leg; but the pain in his head was so great 
that it seemed as though he could not remain long in the 
same position. Mrs. Marson soothed and relieved him in 
every possible way ; but he could not help moaning now and 
again. 

Dr. Nuttlebig was amazed at the gentleness of this very 
substantial lady of five-and-sixty — a strong-minded woman 
if there ever was one — a mistress who ruled always as if she 
were master. 

“ No mother nursing an only child could be more tender 
or loving,” he told the Colonel, who rode over before break- 
fast. 


152 


HEARING THE NEWS 


“ Quite believe it,” said the soldier. “ Rum chaps, these 
women! Ordered me about yesterday as if I’d been a 
plough-boy. Ah, here’s Father Connelly. Good morning, 
Father! You’re too tired to say Mass for us this morning, 
I’m sure?” 

“ I’m just starting for Ridingdale,” said the priest. 
“ They’re saddling a horse for me now.” 

“ Excellent ” exclaimed the Colonel. “ I’ll ride ahead 
and let as many people know as I can come across. I shall 
be there to serve you, Father.” 

Week-day Mass was at that time an unheard-of privilege 
at Ridingdale. Considering the circumstances, the congre- 
gation was a good one. The Colonel had called upon 
William Lethers the night before in order to give him the 
latest news of Charlie, and late as it was, when Mrs. Leth- 
ers heard there was likely to be Mass on the following 
morning she sent her husband and sons to announce it to 
all Catholics who lived within reasonable distance. The 
result was edifying. 

“ One good, at least, will come out of this evil,” said the 
Colonel to Father Connelly as they sat at breakfast. “We 
must have a resident priest here.” 

“ I’m glad you say at least. I fancy more than one last- 
ing good will be the consequence of this outrage. As for 
a resident priest here ” 

“ It’s no good, Father, we must have one. Perhaps, like 
most people, I think of myself first of all, but I’m also 
thinking of my wife. Her health is a real anxiety just 


HEARING THE NEWS 


153 


now. Now with the quickest horses I have got I could 
not reach you much under two hours; and then there’s the 
return journey. Besides, I might not find you or your 
colleague at home.” 

“ Mr. Marson spoke much in the same way last night.” 

“ Yes,” continued the Colonel, “ what he said set me 
thinking. Marson’s a very good fellow. He’d certainly 
help with the money, and he’s not a poor man by any 
means. He’s the only farmer Timington way who can get 
anything out of his land.” 

“ He was happy in the choice of a wife,” said the priest 
smiling. 

“You’re right. She’s a woman of some education, but 
she does the work of three or four dairy-maids. There’s 
not a more hospitable housewife in the Dale, but she hates 
extravagance like sin.” 

“Isn’t it sin?” 

“ Well, of course. You know what I mean, Father. 
You should see the extravagance and pretentiousness of 
some of our farmers at this end. And I know that one 
or two of them are verging upon bankruptcy. Where 
Mrs. Marson would offer you good home-brewed ale, they 
bring out champagne. When she asks you to dinner she 
gives you a slice of excellent beef, or a chicken that she has 
cooked herself : they send an order to Kelverston for what 
in their vulgarity they call a ‘ slap-up dinner.’ I know ’em. 
Unhappily their number is increasing. But I’m getting off 


HEARING THE NEWS 


154 

the line. It’s a resident priest we’re talking about. And 
we want you! ” 

“ Well,” said Father Connelly laughing a little at his 
host, “ you are very kind, of course. But you know that 
nothing in this matter rests with me.” 

“True; but what I mean is — you know the circum- 
stances, and the Bishop is sure to consult you. You know 
how far the need is a real one. And you can tell his 
lordship from me that, between us, Mr. Marston and I will 
raise the necessary funds. There’s nobody else except 
Lethers, and he is not a rich man. Never will be, I fancy. 
He’s too good-natured.” 

“ He’ll have his reward : probably a double one,” said the 
priest : “ one here and one hereafter. Good-hearted people 
always have, even though they have their disappointments. 
But now, Colonel, do you think it is too early for me to call 
upon poor Mrs. Chittywick ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered the Colonel promptly, “ I think it is. 
If, as you kindly say, you are prepared to spend the day and 
night with us, or rather with the Marsons, you cannot do 
better than put off your visit to Mrs. Chittywick. I’ve 
a special reason for saying so, though I can’t give it to you 
for the next three or four hours.” 

True to his resolution to say nothing about Mr. Chitty- 
wick until the matter became common property, the Colonel 
had not even mentioned it to Father Connelly. A few 
hours later the arrest of Charlie’s father became the talk of 
the town. 


HEARING THE NEWS 


155 


“ Yes, I’ll have a look at the lad,” said Dr. Nuttlebig in 
a low voice to Mrs. Marson that same evening, “ but I’m 
not anxious about him now. He’ll suffer, poor chap, but 
he’s young and we shall pull him through. I’m more 
than anxious about his mother, though. She’s had a sort 
of stroke, and I’m afraid her brain is, or will be, affected. 
I’ve driven over really to fetch the priest.” 

“ Poor thing ! ” sighed Mrs. Marson, “ the double shock 
was too much for her. And no wonder ! ” 

“ Well, as far as I can make out she took the news of 
the lad’s injury pretty composedly. It was hearing of her 
husband being in prison that upset her. The girls hadn’t 
told her, you know, and she heard of it by accident. 
Somebody talking in the street, I fancy.” 

As priest and doctor drove back to Ridingdale, the 
former begged to be told the worst about the condition of 
Mrs. Chittywick. 

“ Well,” said the doctor, “ I don’t think she’ll ever get 
over it. She was always a feeble-minded woman, poor 
thing! And though she was never the confirmed invalid 
she thought herself, she led too inactive and unwholesome 
a life to be very strong. Of course the man has always 
been a scoundrel and a brute, but the wife is anything but 
blameless. She’s one of those wretched women so com- 
mon in this country who will ape the lady — at the cost of 
the shopkeeper if he’s fool enough to let them.” 

“ I know — I know,” sighed the priest. “ But at the 


156 


HEARING THE NEWS 


present moment what do you think of her mental condi- 
tion ?” 

“Well, she’s sane enough now; but I shan’t be at all 
surprised if she has a second stroke before long. Then she 
will be a helpless idiot, poor creature ! ” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


MRS. MARSON’S WAY. 

Charlie was struggling to say something, and after a 
time Mrs. Marson caught the word “ Flossy.” 

“ Was that the pony, my dear?” she asked. “O well, 
he’s all right. He was taken back to the factory by a 
Timington lad. But you mustn’t talk, child. Mr. Pale- 
worthy has just been to inquire about you. He’s very 
sorry for you, Charlie. Oh, and Mr. Lethers has just been. 
I was to give you his love and his wife’s. We can’t let 
anybody see you at present, my dear, you’re too ill. Please 
God, you’ll soon be all right again. Only it will take time, 
Charlie, it’ll take time.” 

Charley fixed eloquently grateful eyes upon Mrs. Mar- 
son. There was much he wanted to say, but the pain was 
so acute, his weakness so great, he could not talk — even 
if his nurse would let him. 

“ How did you find the poor woman, Father?” Mrs. 
Marson asked in a whisper when the priest returned. 

“ Very ill indeed, poor thing! ” he replied. “ But, thank 
God, not too ill to make her confession. I am more than 
thankful that your doctor came to me when he did. While 
I was anointing her she began to wander. I hope to see 
her again in the morning. In fact, I shall have to spend 

i57 


158 


MRS. M ARSON’S WAY 


the remainder of the week either here or at Ridingdale. 
The only question is — at which place can I be more use- 
ful ?” - 

Mrs. Marson argued that they had room enough in their 
house for half a dozen guests, and no lack of help; but 
when the priest pointed out that by staying with the Colonel 
he would be within easy walking distance of the church, 
and that Mrs. Chittywick’s needs just then, seemed greater 
than those of her son, Mrs. Marson gave way. 

The Colonel had placed a horse at the service of the 
priest, and Father Connelly spent most of the following 
day — now by Charlie’s bedside and now by his mother’s. 
For the Hardlow Petty Sessions were sitting, and Mr. and 
Mrs. Marson and the Colonel had to give evidence. The 
entire neighbourhood was greatly excited, and the small 
court-house was soon crowded to inconvenience. 

From the beginning, the youth Skinny showed the great- 
est anxiety to give evidence against the older prisoner — 
whose appearance in the dock, wretched and miserable as 
it was, did not evoke the smallest sentiment of pity. The 
giving of evidence lasted several hours, and the prisoners 
were remanded. 

In the dusk of that same evening, Mrs. Marson had 
another visitor — Charlie’s grandmother. At first she did 
little else but weep, and Mrs. Marson found it hard to 
comfort her. 

“ He wa’ allis a bad ’un, wa’ my son,” she sobbed. “ A 
lad what’s bad to his mother is sure to be had to his wife. 


MRS. MARS ON’S WAY 


159 


An’ now he’d done his best to murder his own child. An’ 
in t’ beginnin’ t’wa nowt but pride. Let ’appen what would, 
he mun be t’ gentleman. Then he went from bad to wuss 
and took t’ drink. He took ivery penny of his feyther’s 
savin’s, he did. It was on t’strength o’ that Mester Arm- 
strong lent him money. I’d saved a pound or two myself, 
but I wouldna let him ’ev it. And now and now — d’ye 
think they’ll ’ang him, mum? I mean if t’ lad dies? ” 

“ Oh, we’ll hope it won’t be so bad as that,” said 
Mrs. Marson. “ Besides, I don’t think the boy will die, 
thank God. Dr. Nuttlebig seems very hopeful now. But 
your son’s wife is very ill, you know. You are going to 
see her, no doubt ? ” 

“ Not if it would save her life ! ” cried the old woman 
fiercely. 

Mrs. Marson looked shocked. 

“ Don’t say that,” she pleaded. “ I know you don’t 
mean it. Poor Mrs. Chittywick has had a stroke, and is in 
a very bad way indeed.” 

“ Sarve her right ! ” said the old woman savagely. “ She 
turned up her nose at me all the days of her life — wouldn’t 
speak to me if I met her i’ Ridingdale street. Catch me 
going to her! She’s as bad as her husband i’ one way.” 

But Mrs. Marson had made up her mind that Charlie’s 
grandmother should see her son’s wife. The argument was 
a long one, but Mrs. Marson won it — won it by firm but 
patient pleading. 

“ Those girls are perfectly incapable of nursing,” the 


i6o 


MRS. MARS ON'S WAY 


farmer’s wife had said. “If you don’t go and nurse the 
poor woman you’ll never forgive yourself. And you cer- 
tainly won’t like to think of it when you are on your own 
death-bed.” 

So old Mrs. Chittywick suffered herself to be driven 
over to Ridingdale on the following morning — only to find 
her daughter-in-law incapable of speech. 

“ It can only be a matter of a few days,” the doctor said. 
“ She had a second stroke in the night. She has no 
stamina at all.” 

On the very day that her husband was committed to take 
his trial at the Autumn Assizes, Mrs. Chittywick died. 
And Mrs. Marson noticed as a singular coincidence that 
on that very day her patient took a wonderful turn for the 
better. 

“ Poor lad ! ” she said to her husband that night as they 
sat alone together, “ he little knows what trouble is in store 
for him.” 

“ Does he suspect his father at all ? ” 

“ Not the least bit as far as I can guess. He never saw 
the man on the road. Skinny said, you remember, that 
Chittywick was behind one hedge, and he behind the other. 
They only came out after the crash, and I suppose Charlie 
was then unconscious. He hasn’t said a word about it.” 

“ He’s asked after his mother?” 

“ Lots of times, and I’ve always told him, truly enough, 
that she was ill. I shan’t know what to say now. It will 


MRS. M ARSON’S WAY 161 

be hard work to tell the child that his mother is dead and 
that his father is a convict.” 

“ Does that little lad of Armstrong’s come every day ? ” 

“ Every day of his life, dear little chap ! I’ve never come 
across such an old-fashioned child in my life. I told him 
to-day that if Charlie went on as well as he has been doing, 
in another week or so he should see him. You should have 
seen the light in his eyes ! ” 

“ Funny thing,” said the farmer as he puffed at his pipe. 
“ One would have thought Armstrong’s son and Chitty- 
wick’s wouldn’t have had much in common.” 

“ I asked him one day if his father knew that he came 
here. He shook his head in his solemn little way. But 
* mother does,’ he said.” 

“ Armstrong’s still hoping that Chittywick will be 
hanged. He was talking about it at market last Friday. 
I told him there was no chance of that.” 

“ What did he say?” 

“ Said he was sorry to hear it. There are things that a 
man like Armstrong can never forgive; one of them is 
— being done. Chittywick must have played his cards well 
to have taken in Armstrong.” 

“ I think I shall let Mrs. Lethers see Charlie to-morrow. 
She’s been over ever so many times, and her husband too. 
She won’t tire him — she’s nursed her own children.” 

“ She’s a good sort of woman,” said Mr. Marson, “ but 
she’s got a fairish tongue. She must mind and not let out 
any bad news to the lad.” 


1 62 


MRS. MARS ON’S WAY 


“ Do you think all woman are fools, John? ” 

“ Not all, my dear. If I’d thought that I wouldn’t have 
married,” chuckled Mr. Marson. “ But you’ll allow that 
women who know when to talk and how, are not as common 
as they ought to be.” 

“ I’ve known men with foolish tongues,” said Mrs. Mar- 
son sharply, and giving the new night-gown she was sewing 
for her patient a sudden twist. 

“ So have I, my dear. Difference is that when a man 
makes a mistake he knows about it and tries to correct it. 
A woman is more reckless. She’ll do or say anything just 
to create a sensation, or to relieve her feelings. Men for- 
give much sooner than women.” 

Mrs. Marson was silent for a few seconds. She was 
thinking of old Mrs. Chittywick. 

“ Say, 4 than some women,’ John,” she ventured. “ Cer- 
tainly, never until the other day did I hear a mother 
denounce her own son. If a mother won’t forgive, no hu- 
man being can.” 

“ In this case, she’s got a deal to forgive, remember.” 

“ I know. Still, I don’t like to hear a woman saying such 
things about her own flesh and blood. But what I can’t 
understand is, John, why this poor lad is so different to his 
father and the rest.” 

Mr. Marson shook the ashes out of his pipe and stepped 
to the open window. Summer seemed reluctant to pass 
away. The night air was still balmy, with just the sugges- 
tion of coolness that makes for refreshment. 


MRS. MARS ON’S WAY 


163 


Sitting sewing within the rays of the shaded lamp Mrs. 
Marson looked up, only to see her husband standing before 
the long low lattice and gazing out into the night. The 
irregularly-shaped sitting-room looked bright and homely. 
The lamplight fell upon late summer flowers in vases, and 
upon much old-fashioned furniture clad in warm crimson. 

“ Don’t forget, Kate, that you know very little about that 
lad,” said Mr. Marson without looking round. 

“ I know more than you do,” she answered quickly. The 
little jerk that she gave to the flannel night-gown was quite 
unnecessary. 

“ I doubt it,” was all that Mr. Marson said in reply. 

“ Who’s been talking to you, John?” 

“ Nobody in particular,” he said, coming back to the 
hearth-rug. “ But don’t make too much of him. Of 
course, I’m glad enough that the poor lad should have been 
brought here. I don’t grudge him anything, goodness 
knows. But don’t spoil him, my dear. He’s got his living 
to get, remember.” 

“John, you’re talking nonsense! How can you spoil a 
child who is so weak and ill that he can’t lift himself up in 
bed ? Spoil indeed ! ” she went on with an indignant ring in 
her voice : “ why it’s not quite a month since he was 
brought into this house more dead than alive. And look 
you here, John Marson, he’s not going out of this house 
until he’s able to look out for himself. You can put that 
in your pipe and smoke it.” 

Mr. Marson was refilling his pipe with something blacker 


164 


MRS. MARS ON'S WAY 


and stronger than his wife’s words. It was time for his 
nightly stroll round the homestead. 

“ I’m saying nothing against the lad,” he remarked 
quietly, between the puffs. “ And if I did I know you’d 
have your own way with him.” 

“ You’re right enough there, John,” she retorted as he 
left the room. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


Freddy’s wonderment. 

“ But do Catholics say prayers on week-days?” Freddy 
Armstrong was asking the invalid. 

“ Of course,” smiled Charlie, “ don’t Protestants ? ” 

“ Night and morning they do. I don’t know about other 
times. There’s chapel on Wednesday nights, of course. 
Perhaps, Charlie,” continued the little boy, stroking the 
hand that he was holding, “ perhaps you pray because you 
are ill.” 

“ When you’re ill you have more time,” said Charlie. 
“ But Catholics pray when they are quite well — that is, 
good Catholics. You see, Freddy, I wasn’t a good Catho- 
lic. Perhaps I’m trying to be now. Mrs. Marson’s a good 
Catholic : so is Mr. Marson. She’s just been teaching me 
how to say these.” 

Charlie held up a string of beads, the first rosary Freddy 
had ever handled. The only part of it that seemed to at- 
tract the little boy was the crucifix. Looking from it to the 
bigger one that stood on a little altar at the foot of Char- 
lie’s bed, he said quietly — 

“ That’s pur Saviour on the Cross. The nails must have 
hurt ever so much — eh Charlie ? ” 

“ Yes, but it wasn’t only the nails. 

165 


It was the hanging 


1 66 


FREDDY’S WONDERMENT 


on the hands all the time — three hours, you know. And 
bleeding all the time! I’ve thought about it a good deal 
lately. You see, Freddy, I bled a lot myself. That’s one 
reason why I’m so weak.” 

Freddy looked from the crucifix to Charlie, and from 
Charlie to the crucifix. 

“ I see,” said the little boy. “ I hadn’t thought of that 
before. But I’d only seen it in a picture. This makes you 
feel it more — doesn’t it ? ” 

“ I think it does. It makes you more sorry for Him. 
And Father Connelly says that when you begin to be sorry 
for Him you begin to love Him, and to be sorry that you 
hurt Him like that.” 

Charlie suddenly turned his head away from Freddy, but 
not before the latter had seen his tear-filled eyes. The in- 
valid was still very weak. 

Freddy was silent — partly in sympathy, partly in sheer 
wonderment. 

“ I didn’t know — I never heard,” — he began after a pause 
— “ I thought Catholics didn’t care for our Saviour. I 
thought they only prayed to the Virgin Mary.” 

“ Never believe anything, Freddy, that you hear about 
Catholics until you are certain that it’s true. Protestants 
don’t mean to tell lies about us, but they do, you know. 
Heaps of big black lies. And you can always find out 
whether a thing is true or not, Freddy, if you like to take 
the trouble.” 


FREDDY’S WONDERMENT 167 

Who shall say whether the entrance of Mrs. Marson was 
opportune or otherwise? 

“ I mustn’t let you stop long to-day, my dear,” she said to 
Freddy in a kindly way. “ He ought not to talk very much 
at present. The poor head is a good deal better,” she said, 
beginning to re-arrange the bandage that encircled Charlie’s 
forehead. “ And you can see him again in a day or two. 
He’ll soon be getting on like a house on fire — won’t you, 
Charlie? ” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Marson,” he replied, lifting affectionate eyes 
to her kind motherly face. 

Freddy went out of the room like a child in a dream. 
What a strange unaccountable world he found himself in! 
His little mind had during the last quarter of an hour 
been turned upside down, so to say, and inside out. 
Protestants told lies! Not only Tom the cobbler, but his 
own father and mother had told him “ big black lies ” ! It 
was an amazing thought. And in one particular at least it 
was without any doubt a fact that they had told lies. 
Catholics did worship God — did believe in the Saviour. 
Nay, it really seemed as though they thought more about 
Him and loved Him better than — well, better than anybody 
Freddy had yet come across. 

And what kind things they did too. Freddy had recently 
heard a sermon on the Good Samaritan. Surely Mrs. 
Marson was the Good Samaritan ! Charlie wasn’t related 
to her at all ; yet there she was — tending him like a mother. 
And she a lady too, in a way ; at any rate well off and with 


1 68 


FREDDY’S WONDERMENT 


grown-up and married sons and daughters, while Charlie 
was the son of a man who was in prison! 

Catholics prayed on week-days too — even in the after- 
noon! And even if they were not ill. And they kept 
before their eyes constantly the Figure of the Saviour on 
the Cross. Freddy had been amazed to find Mrs. Marson 
praying with Charlie — who was so very much better and not 
at all likely to die. Close to the invalid’s hand were all 
sorts of things that spoke of religion. Freddy had looked 
at one or two books that lay on the bed. One was a prayer- 
book, and a picture fell out at a place which was headed 
“ Jesus Psalter.” He opened another small manual whose 
title was Of the Imitation of Christ. What the beads might 
mean, Freddy had no notion, but evidently they indicated 
something good because there was a cross at the end of 
them. 

Freddy was glad of the opportunity of walking home 
alone. The walk from Hardlow School was a larkish sort 
of thing as a rule, quite unlike the morning journey, during 
which most of the boys seemed pre-occupied and a few were 
somewhat depressed. Some tried to learn lessons on the 
road : most of the lads looked over their grammar or their 
author. They were not a very brilliant set. Ridingdale 
farmers and tradesmen who thought that Hardlow School 
would provide brains as well as tuition, were soon dis- 
illusioned. Doting mothers who imagined that a capacity 
for study could be bought like a new bonnet, were quickly 
undeceived. The social distinction of going to Hardlow 


FREDDY’S WONDERMENT 


169 


counted for something; but the purse-bearer often moaned 
over the small return he received for hardly-earned money. 

Freddy kept one vivid and indelible picture before his 
mind’s eye. This “ composition of place ” remained with 
him when he reached home and sat down to tea. It scarcely 
left him when he began to prepare his lessons. It followed 
him upstairs ' to bed. It came back to him with almost 
thrilling distinctness when he knelt to say his prayers. But 
when he laid his head upon the pillow he could see nothing 
but — the Figure of Christ upon the Cross and a boy with 
bandaged head turning tear-filled eyes to the wall. 

Before the eye of his mind, that picture remained for 
many long years. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


AFTER THE TRIAL. 

It was late October and the Assizes were over. 

Very thankfully the principal witnesses reached their 
homes, though Mr. Marson could not help noticing that his 
wife seemed somewhat depressed. The Colonel had 
travelled with them as far as Hardlow Station, and on the 
journey he and Mr. Marson had discussed a subject in 
which the latter’s wife took no part. 

“ I’m so glad the child began to ask questions for him- 
self,” Mrs. Marson said to her husband as they sat down 
to tea. “ It made it all the easier for me just now to tell 
him about the sentence.” 

“ How did he take it? ” 

“ He sobbed a good deal, poor fellow, but he was quiet 
and calm when I left him. Last week when he asked me 
what I thought his father would get, I told him what the 
Colonel said — that it was likely to be penal servitude for 
life. So when he heard that it was only fifteen years ” 

“ Means the same as life to a man like Chittywick, you 
know,” Mr. Marson interpolated. 

“ I know, John. But the lad said, ‘ I’m so glad it isn’t 
more than that.’ Really, he’s a wonderful child. I don’t 
think there’s a grain of malice in him. It’s not only the 

170 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


171 

sickness and the pain, I’m sure, for the stronger he gets — 
and he really has got on this last week — the more forgiving 
he seems to be. When I told him that Skinny had got off 
with twelve months' imprisonment he said, ‘ Poor Skinny, 
he was always cruel to animals and children, but I never 
thought he’d do anything quite so bad.” 

Mr. Marson was making a hearty tea ; his wife seemed to 
have but little appetite. 

“ He’ll be able to get out a bit, the doctor says, when we 
get a fine day. Eliza tells me that he only went to bed just 
before we got back. And it’s been a wearing day for him, 
poor fellow. It was hearing of his mother’s death that 
threw him back; but what could I do? He saw it in my 
face, I’m sure. People always tell me that I’ve got a tell- 
tale face. But when the child asked me point blank, ‘ Mrs. 
Marson, I feel sure that my mother’s dead, and that’s why 
she doesn’t come to see me ’ — well, John, what could I do? ” 

“ You did quite right, my dear,” said Mr. Marson, help- 
ing himself to another egg. “ It was bound to come out 
sooner or later. And it was better that he should get it 
out of you in bits than that you should have to break it to 
him.” 

Mrs. Marson was silent, and though her husband did not 
look at her he knew that she was crying. He was just a 
little apprehensive. He guessed that there was something 
on her mind, and he had reason to believe that the some- 
thing would soon be upon her tongue. Unluckily for him, 
he could plead no sort of appointment or engagement. 


172 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


The harvest had long been gathered in. His dairy was an 
extensive affair, and the Marson butter was a thing Riding- 
dale people almost fought for; but his wife was so careful 
in the selection of her maids that, though she supervised 
every detail and made up much of the butter with her own 
hands, she could now and then leave home with the com- 
fortable feeling that in her absence all would be well. 

“ John,” she began suddenly after a long pause, “ the lad 
has been fretting a good deal lately : and it’s bad for him in 
his weak state. He’s got enough to fret over, we know. 
To all intents and purposes he’s an orphan now.” 

“ He’s been as good as one this long time, according to 
William Lethers,” said Mr. Marson. 

“ Perhaps he has. But now he’s got to face the world 
all alone. He might as well have no sisters at all as those 
two silly girls. It’s going on now for three months since 
he was carried into this house, and they’ve been to see him 
— just twice. And I heard yesterday that the old grand- 
mother is leaving this part of the country for good. She’s 
got a widowed sister living near Manchester, and they’re 
going to keep house together. And you know, John, I 
asked Mr. Paleworthy my own self if he was going to take 
the lad back again: he said he was sorry but he really 
couldn’t. John, I ask you — what is the poor boy to do? ” 

It had come at last and Mr. Marson had to face the 
inevitable. He could not say that his wife was premature 
in the matter, for Charlie was just entering into the state 
of convalescence. 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


173 


“ I had a chat with the Colonel about the lad coming 
down,” said Mr. Marson, dealing himself out some generous 
spoonfuls of marmalade. “ Didn’t you hear what we 
said? ” 

“ No, I didn’t. How is one to hear anything in a train? 
And the Colonel always talks as if he’d got a plum in his 
mouth.” 

Mr. Marson did not look up, but he knew by the tone of 
his wife’s voice that her tears were dry. She poured out a 
cup of tea and stirred it at leisure. 

“ Well, you know, my dear,” he began, tentatively, “ the 
Colonel was very kind about it. He was wondering if the 
lad wouldn’t like to enlist, or ” 

Mrs. Marson had not intended to break her saucer. She 
was in the act of raising the cup to her lips when her hus- 
band spoke, and she set it down again with such force that 
the china split into segments. 

“ Well, of all the ” 

“ Wait a minute, my dear! You’re so hasty. I was 
just going to say that we thought if he didn’t like the army 
he might care to go to sea.” 

“ John Marson, you’re a born idiot! ” exclaimed the lady 
with heat. “ And as for Colonel Ruggerson, I’ll drive over 
to Ridingdale this very night and give him a bit of my 
mind.” 

“ Do be reasonable, my dear,” Mr. Marson pleaded. He 
had had an excellent tea, and could afford to look at things 
calmly. The dinner that he and his wife had eaten at York 


174 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


was a failure, for though they had gone to a good hotel, the 
Autumn Assizes had brought more people to the ordinary 
than the waiters could properly serve. But a high tea at 
his own table had made up for the noonday deficiency. 

“ The lad has got to earn his own living,” he went on, 
“ and it isn’t at all likely that he’ll want to stay about here.” 

“ And why not ? ” the lady demanded strongly. 

“ Well, my dear, surely it stands to reason.” 

“ I don’t see it,” she retorted. “ I see no reason at all 
for his going away. What has he done? Did he rob his 
master? Did he try to murder anybody? And is he a 
street Arab that he should be shunted into the army or out 
to sea? Haven’t you said yourself that you’d never come 
across a lad with better manners? You said one day that 
he’d got bad blood in him. So have we all. ‘ There go I 
— but for the grace of God,’ as the good man said when 
they were taking a criminal to be hanged. John Marson — 
I’m ashamed of you ! ” 

“ Father Connelly, ma’am ! ” Eliza announced — to the 
relief of Mr. Marson. 

The priest had been unable to help overhearing Mrs. 
Marson’s last sentence. Moreover, he found her some- 
what flushed. 

“ Very glad to see you, Father,” said Mr. Marson. 

“ So am I,” his wife significantly echoed. 

“ This is my first visit since settling down at Ridingdale,” 
said the priest. “ I would have called earlier in the day 
only that I knew you were in York. And I ought perhaps 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


175 


to have spared you this evening. You are tired after that 
long journey, Mrs. Marson, are you not ? ” 

She would not admit that she was in the least tired and 
she could not refuse to give the priest a report of the trial. 

“ We were very glad to come away, Father,” she said, 
after describing the Assize Court proceedings at some 
length, “ and very thankful it did not take longer. But 
now,” she went on, “ there’s something else to settle. 
What’s to become of this poor lad ? ” 

Mr. Marson fidgeted uneasily in his big cushioned chair. 
“ Ah ! ” said the priest looking straight into the fire, 
“ that is rather a serious question.” — He knew now what 
was the nature of the little tiff he had interrupted. 

Mr. Marson cast imploring eyes at his wife, as though 
begging her not to give him away. Father Connelly 
scarcely knew whether to be glad or sorry that he had 
called. 

“ What do you think of the lad, Father? ” 

“ Oh, I think he’s ever so much better — considering 
everything; though Eliza tells me that he has been very 
depressed to-day. No wonder, poor child ! ” 

“ I didn’t mean that, Father Connelly,” said Mrs. Mar- 
son. “ I want to know, and I want my husband to know 
what you think of Charlie’s character.” 

The priest smiled. 

“ Don’t you know that you should never ask a priest 
what he thinks about any person,” he said. “ And in this 
case I am sure, Mrs. Marson, that you have had opportunity 


176 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


enough to form a very accurate judgment as to the boy’s 
character. How many weeks has he been under your 
roof?” 

Mrs. Marson began to reckon and found that it was more 
than twelve weeks. 

“ Three months ! That’s a good long time. And you 
must remember that sickness is a very trying time. Have 
you found him very fractious and difficult, Mrs. Marson? ” 

She could not answer for a minute or so, but while she 
dabbed her eyes the priest looked straight into the fire. 
Mr. Marson put on more coal. 

“ I’ve never had such a patient in my life,” she said at 
length. “ I’ve nursed my own brothers and my own sons 
through different ailments, but though they are my own 
flesh and blood I must say that not one of them was so 
gentle or so patient or so grateful as this poor child. Even 
when he was in the greatest pain — you remember those first 
three days, Father? — he used to try so hard not to moan 
and not to move; yet the doctor said himself that the lad 
was in agonies. And I don’t believe that from the begin- 
ning till now he has ever asked for a single thing.” 

The priest was thinking that probably Mrs. Marson had 
always anticipated her patient’s wants; but he did not in- 
terrupt her. 

“ Then the way that child has prayed not only for 
himself, but for his father and mother and sisters. Once 
he got a little better and fell into the way of saying the 
beads — well, I’m pretty sure he said them every hour. He 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


1 77 


had never handled them in his life before, and he told me 
that he didn't think his mother had a pair. He said very 
little about religion unless I spoke of it, but he always 
seemed so glad to have anything that was holy and good. 
And you know yourself, Father, how delighted he always 
was when you came to see him." 

Father Connelly nodded and smiled. Mr. Marson had 
closed his eyes, but his wife knew that he was not asleep. 
John Marson’s drowsy-time did not come until ten o'clock, 
and at present it was not seven. 

“ People talk about boys being giddy and careless," she 
went on, “ and some of them are all that and much more ; 
but when suffering touches them they can be as thoughtful 
and prayerful as grown-up folk. Yes, and more so. God 
hasn't so much to forgive them as He might have if they 
were older. I know how it was with my own lads. I shall 
never forget one night as I was going up to bed, passing our 
George's door and hearing him sobbing as if his heart 
would break. He was thirteen or fourteen at the time, and 
his tears were about as rare as snow at midsummer. I 
went to his bedside as I always did at that time, and found 
his pillow soaked with tears. But I could get nothing out 
of him except, ‘ O mother, I do want to be good.’ I kissed 
and comforted him and he got quieter after a time; but I 
couldn’t remember that he had been particularly naughty 
that day. He told me afterwards that nothing had hap- 
pened, only that he wanted to be ever so much better than 
he was/' 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


1 78 

“ I quite understand,” said the priest. “ That is some- 
times the way God speaks to the soul of a boy. You used 
to laugh at me, if you remember, when I told you that 
George would certainly be a monk.” 

“ Well, Father, it didn’t look like it at one time — did it 
now? For if ever there was a mischievous young monkey 
in this world, it was our George. He wasn’t a bit like his 
brother Bernard: I had great hopes that he would get a 
vocation.” 

“ So he did, Mrs. Marson.” 

“Ah, you know what I mean, Father. Marriage is a 
vocation in a sense, especially such a marriage as he made : 
but I’d thought of something higher. Then there’s Frank: 
whoever would have thought of him as a priest? Why I 
don’t believe he ever got through the summer holidays 
without having a good thrashing from his father. Yet it 
was only yesterday that I received a letter from his Bishop 
saying, 4 Your son is a priest after my own heart.’ Then 
there are the girls ” 

Mr. Marson appeared to wake up at this point, though it 
is certain that he had not really slept. The conversation 
was drifting into a safer channel and the farmer was quite 
prepared to join in it. 

“ Show Father Connelly that last letter you had from 
Lucy — perhaps I ought to say Mother Mary Scholastica, 
but it’s such a mouthful.” 

“ I will before he goes, John. Nay, Father, don’t look at 
your watch. We want to talk to you about something 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


179 


important. We’ve talked to you often enough I’m sure, 
about our own children. And thank God, they’re all right. 
They’re all settled for life, and we’ve no anxiety about any 
of them. Two of them went to Heaven when they were 
babies ; two of them are married ; the other three are trying 
to save souls. We are lonely without them, God knows. 
We’re not old folks yet, but we are getting on. Father,” 
the good woman cried, raising her voice ever so little, “ I 
can never part with this child, I may say this orphan, that 
God has sent me. And I won’t.” 

The priest glanced at Mr. Marson. Again that good 
man had shut his eyes. Father Connelly asked himself if 
he was really called upon to take sides in a question of this 
sort, and if so — which side ought he to take? He was 
silent for some moments. 

“ I hope, Mrs. Marson,” he began at length, “ that you 
won’t come to any decision before consulting the boy’s own 
feelings in the matter. He may already have some plan of 
action. Boys are very close about such things, you know. 
Have you spoken to him already ? ” 

Mr. Marson’s eyes opened quickly and fixed themselves 
upon his wife. 

“ Not a word,” she replied. “ I’ve often wanted to. 
I’ve been on the point of doing so often enough. He seems 
to know that Mr. Paleworthy can’t take him on again, and 
I think it worries him. That’s just why I’m anxious to 
have something settled.” 

“ But,” asked the priest hesitatingly, “ may I ask — in 


i8o 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


what capacity — or rather, in what way you purpose to help 
the boy ? ” 

“ I want to adopt him as my own,” she said with great 
decision. 

Mr. Marson suddenly pulled out his watch, looked at it 
hastily and walked out of the room without a word. 
A stranger would have concluded that the farmer was 
going to keep a forgotten engagement. But the priest and 
Mr. Marson were not strangers. 

“ Please excuse him, Father,” Mrs. Marson began, 
anxious to apologize for her husband. “ We were having 
words about this very thing when you came in. Not very 
angry words, perhaps, though I own I was beginning to 
feel nettled. John is so funny about some things. It’s not 
that he has taken any dislike to the lad, and you know that 
he’s the last man in the world to begrudge what we’ve done 
for Charlie. And it isn’t that John wants to be rid of him. 
But over and over again when I’ve tried to come to the 
point he would not let me. In my own mind I blame the 
Colonel. He’s been talking to John and persuading him. 
I couldn’t well hear what they were talking about in the 
train, but I did catch the word ‘ drummer-boy,’ and from 
what my husband has told me since, that’s just what the 
Colonel suggested. Or the sea. Just think of it ! Now I 
put it to you, Father — Is he the kind of lad to be shunted 
off like that? ” 

“ I don’t think he -is,” the priest replied. “ It doesn’t 
seem to me that he’s at all the kind of boy either for the 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


181 

army or the navy — honourable as both services are. But 
on the other hand, Mrs. Marson, you must pardon me for 
saying that your proposal to adopt him is rather startling. 
I can understand your husband’s feelings on the point. The 
idea does immense credit to your heart, but then in a matter 
of this sort we must consult the head as well as the heart. 
The responsibility of adopting a boy is a grave one — 
though it is one that I wish more well-to-do childless people 
would incur. Certainly they would often increase their 
own happiness a hundred-fold. But in regard to this par- 
ticular lad 

“ What is there against him, Father, that I have not 
heard of ? ” Mrs. Marson asked. “ I’ve talked to the people 
who know him best, who’ve known him ever since he was 
a baby; what is the worst that they can say of him? They 
say that after his father’s bankruptcy the child had to 
starve, and that when he had the opportunity he stole 
something to eat. Well, I’m not saying that he did right. 
I’m not defending his thefts. He wasn’t exactly dying and 
so I suppose that his thieving was sinful. But as Mrs. 
Lethers says ” 

“ Oh, you’ve been talking to Mrs. Lethers, have you ? ” 
the priest smilingly questioned, as Mrs. Marson paused in 
her speech to regulate the lamp. “ You are right in think- 
ing that there is not much concerning Charlie that she 
doesn’t know. Still I fancy that both she and her husband 
ought to be regarded as special pleaders, though entirely 
truthful ones. But then, Mrs. Marson, the boy’s past is not 


182 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


so much my difficulty as his relationship to a very unhappy 
and I fear a very vicious, family. Even that is not the 
whole of my difficulty. What would you do with him sup- 
posing you did adopt him? — Of course you will have to find 
out first if he is willing to be adopted — won’t you? But 
supposing he is — do you suppose that he should go to school, 
or begin to work upon the farm? Would he be ready to 
do either? You see, he is no longer a little child. He is 
fourteen and a half, I suppose, and has already earned his 
own living. He knows what it is to be independent. All 
this makes a great difference to a lad. A school-boy of 
eighteen or nineteen is sometimes a mere baby in character 
compared with a working-lad of fourteen or fifteen.” 

For the first time that evening, Mrs. Marson allowed 
several minutes to pass without speaking. 

“ Supposing, Father,” she said at last, and with less than 
her usual briskness of speech — “ supposing the lad is willing 
to work on the farm, and supposing my husband doesn’t 
set his face against it, and supposing Charlie takes to the 
work ” 

She did not finish her sentence, and the priest took it up 
with a merry laugh. 

“ We are supposing almost as much as if we were in the 
nursery — aren’t we? But if you were going to add, ‘ Might 
we not give him a trial as farm-lad and with no mention of 
adoption? ’ — if you ask my opinion of that, I say, do it by 
all means, and may God bless you for it ! ” 

“ Amen. And thank you, Father,” said John Marson. 


AFTER THE TRIAL 


183 


He had opened the door while Father Connelly was speak- 
ing, and had stood holding it until the priest had finished. 
“ That’s sensible, Father,” he went on, taking his usual 
chair. “ It gives the lad a chance and it commits us to 
nothing. Does that satisfy you, Kate ? ” 

She sighed a little as she said, “ Well, I suppose it ought 
to do.” 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“ THE END OF A TWELVE-MONTH.” 

Charlie had spent more than a year at Marson’s farm. 
He had watched the procession of the months from a point 
of vantage. He had shared in the work of each season 
and in its joys. Autumn found him no longer an invalid, 
in any sense of the word; no longer a pale-faced convales- 
cent with bandaged head; no longer leaning heavily upon 
crutch or stick ; no longer requiring to be tended and waited 
upon, but ready, yes, more than ready, to give willing and 
affectionate service both to — well, it might as well be said — 
to father and mother. 

It had already come to that. “ If at the end of a twelve- 
month he turns out to be what you think he is,” Mr. Marson 
said to his wife, “ then we’ll reckon him among our own.” 

“ But it must be twelve months only from the day he was 
carried into the house,” Mrs. Marson bargained, and though 
her husband argued against this, he did not insist upon 
reckoning from the time of Charlie’s convalescence. 

Long before the year was up it became quite evident to 
Mr. Marson that the boy was giving them much more than 
eye-service or cupboard-love. To Mrs. Marson this was no 
surprise at all; but to the cautious farmer who knew the 
world and the men who composed it, the slow recognition 

184 


“THE END OF A TWELVE-MONTH” 185 

of the fact was as amazing as it was pleasing. He said 
very little to his wife about the matter, and she very pru- 
dently refrained from calling his frequent attention to the 
boy’s devotedness. But she saw clearly enough that Charlie 
was making as lasting a place in her husband’s heart as he 
had already made in her own. 

The winter had been a mild one, but January came before 
the doctor would allow the boy to do any kind of manual 
work. Mrs. Marson took care that the labour should be 
light and strictly limited as to hours. He must get strong 
and hearty, she said, before he began to learn farming. 
She made him her “ head dairy-maid ” for the time, and re- 
joiced to find him both handy and clean. People who 
deal with milk, she declared, should be spotless and speck- 
less; Charlie satisfied her scrupulousness in this matter. 
She laughed sometimes at the sight of him in his fresh 
linen blouse, trying to make as little noise as possible on 
the tiles of the dairy floor — laughed at the notion of any- 
body, particularly a boy, thinking that the accustomed 
sound of clogs could distress her. 

He could milk with the best of the men and lads about 
the place: it was an accomplishment that he had picked up 
long before she knew him. Very frankly, but with many 
blushes and some misgivings, he told her one day when and 
why he had learned the art. He had often found it useful 
in the days of his semi-starvation. “ Of course, mother,” 
he said, “ it was stealing : but somehow it didn’t seem to 
be that at the time. I often went into a field and milked a 


1 86 " THE END OF A TWELVE-MONTH” 

cow when I was very hungry and thirsty. Two or three 
times a beast has kicked me over. Once I was caught by a 
cowman and horsewhipped. ,, 

“ Poor child !” was all she said as she hastily moved 
away in order to hide her tears. After that he rarely 
spoke to her of those two years of bitter days, years of 
suffering vagabondage. 

The winter nights found him at his books, sitting with 
the farmer and his wife in the big irregularly shaped room, 
full of crimson-cushioned comfort and lamp-light, warmed 
with a fire that sparkled merrily on the big old-fashioned 
hearth. Two or three hours’ dairy work with Mrs. Mar- 
son and her maids, and three or four hours’ study — was 
the programme that Father Connelly had suggested and 
that Dr. Nuttlebig approved. Twice a week, sometimes 
oftener, the priest came over and gave the boy some help, 
correcting his Latin and French exercises and introducing 
him to the Second Book of Euclid. 

Spring found him still studying and helping in the dairy ; 
but Mrs. Marson would not let him try his hand at the 
plough — a thing he greatly wished to do. 

“ Yes, I know you are fifteen,” she said when he laugh- 
ingly pleaded his age. “ But you know, Charlie, you don’t 
look it by two years. And you’ve only got the strength of 
a lad of thirteen. By-and-bye, please God, you’ll get over 
that; but for the present we are not going to let you do 
much hard work.” 

Even when summer came, and the hay covered the 


"THE END OF A TWELVE-MONTH” 187 

meadows round Marson’s farm, she would not allow him to 
spend more than a few hours a day in the hot sun. The 
boy felt ashamed of himself as he left the field before 
eleven in the morning, to return only in the late afternoon; 
but there was no arguing with Mrs. Marson, and he tried 
to make up for the trifling manual work by extra diligence 
at his books. 

September came before the farmer declared his purpose 
to Charlie. Mr. Marson put the matter very plainly, at the 
same time giving the lad to understand that if there was 
any trade or profession that he felt drawn to, he was to be 
sure and mention it at once. 

“ I don’t want to force you into farming, my lad, against 
your own will. They tell me you’re very good at your 
books and, though book-learning isn’t thrown away upon a 
farmer, I don’t believe in people taking up a thing that they 
are not fond of.” 

The boy struggled to express himself, but it was some 
time before the right words would come. For a long 
time past he had realized that, for some reason or other 
that he could not account for, both the farmer and his wife 
were pleased with him. He had regarded himself as a 
sort of highly-privileged servant — privileged because he 
had had a painful illness ; but that these good people should 
offer to make him their foster-son seemed beyond belief. 

“ Mr. Marson,” he began brokenly, “ if — if you told me 
that I was your slave for life, I should think myself the 
happiest lad in the world ! ” 


1 88 “ THE END OF A TWELVE-MONTH » 

“Kate!” called out Mr. Marson, opening the door; 
“ come and claim your boy! Yes, that’s right, lad, kiss 
your mother,” the farmer said, as his wife hurrried into 
the room and took Charlie to her arms. “ She loves you 
just as if you were her own.” 

“ And so does he,” Mrs. Marson declared, as the boy 
pressed his foster-father’s hand between his own small 
palms and looked up with wet eyes and a glad smile. 

The matter was to be their own little secret for a time, 
Mrs. Marson said, but only for a time. 


CHAPTER XX. 


COMING OF AGE. 

Few of the people invited to Marson’s farm for the cele- 
bration of Charlie’s twenty-first birthday ever forgot that 
great festivity. Hospitable as the house had always been, 
it had never before contained so many guests. The mar- 
ried children of the worthy pair were all present, as well 
as the priest sons of whom they were so proud. It is true 
that it took Mr. and Mrs. Lethers a good hour or more 
to shake off the embarrassment of finding themselves sitting 
at the same table with Colonel Ruggerson ; but to Charlie’s 
delight the good couple did make themselves thoroughly 
at home long before the substantial dinner was over. 

As some of the guests remarked, Charlie may not have 
looked his twenty-one years; some boys of eighteen have 
seemed older than Mr. and Mrs. Marson’s adopted son. 
But it is certain that he looked radiantly happy and extra- 
ordinarily healthy. Youthful his appearance might be : no 
one could question its perfect robustness and content. If 
his bright eyes were dimmed now and again, the tears that 
filled them were tears of gratitude; if his happy smile faded 
for a moment, it returned with the suddenness of spring 
sunshine. 

The day was a long and a happy one. Mr. and Mrs. 

189 


✓ 


COMING OF AGE 


190 

Marson and Charlie had driven over to Ridingdale in the 
early morning to hear Mass and to receive Holy Com- 
munion. From its first hour the day was blessed. By 
one o’clock the guests had arrived : none of them left until 
sunset. Some of them remained for the night. 

It was a family gathering on a large scale. Nobody was 
invited for form’s sake. Every guest was a relative or a 
friend of the family. There were speeches, but no reporter 
was present to take them down. The longest of these 
speeches, the jerkiest and most involved, was made by 
Colonel Ruggerson. But it was in many respects a good 
speech — honest, hearty, and, in a way, inspiring. Perhaps 
it was fortunate for the Colonel that the reporter was ab- 
sent. Fortunate for the reporter it certainly was. 

The speech made by William Lethers was a masterpiece. 
To make it thoroughly understood by the reader would 
necessitate translation and interpretation — possibly a glos- 
sary : but it was much appreciated. 

“ Fellow’d have been an orator if he’d been educated,” 
Colonel Ruggerson whispered to Mrs. Marson at whose 
right hand he was sitting. A proud woman was Mrs. 
Lethers when this compliment to her husband was reported 
to her. 

Mr. Marson’s speech was plain and direct and not 
lengthy. Its purport made his wife very happy. He spoke 
openly of Charlie as his adopted son and — heir to the farm. 
Even to the boy himself he had not been quite so explicit. 

“ Never,” said Father Connelly afterwards, “ never have 


COMING OF AGE 


igi 

I seen so many healths drunk and so little wine consumed.” 

Perhaps his Reverence’s speech was the best of the even- 
ing. It provoked more laughter than tears, though the 
latter were not wanting, and it led to Charlie’s first effort 
in the speaking line. His speech was very modest and 
very brief. 

“ Dear father and mother, ladies and gentlemen,” he 
began falteringly, “ I can only thank you from my heart 
and with all my heart. I am and have long been the object 
of a conspiracy of kindness — kindness such as few boys 
meet with, I fear, — kindness that is altogether undeserved 
— kindness that, try as I will, I can never repay. For many 
a long year to come may God keep us together, and may 
my dear — ” 

He could not finish, and in the midst of applause led by 
the Colonel and prolonged by him the boy sat down with a 
sob. 

Speech-making as an effort and an art was over for that 
day: spontaneous and merry conversation took its place. 
The afternoon was almost gone. Tea was to be served at 
five and every guest was pressed to remain. The men 
dispersed to smoke and to look at stock: the ladies took 
possession of the big parlour. 

Only one invited guest was absent. Freddy Armstrong, 
now a stalwart lad of fifteen, had not been allowed to come. 
The invitation had been sent by Mrs. Marson to Freddy’s 
father, for Mrs. Armstrong was long dead. A curtly polite 


192 


COMING OF AGE 


note had been sent in reply — a note of refusal that Freddy 
himself was forced to leave at the farm. 

“ But I shall see you for a minute on your birthday, 
Charlie,” Freddy had said. “ I shall wish you many happy 
returns — either when Fm going to school or coming back.” 

Freddy called at the farm that morning, but Charlie had 
not then returned from church. 

“ He’s certain to look in as he goes home this afternoon,” 
Charlie said to himself more than once; and between four 
and five o’clock as he was strolling through the meadows 
with a little party of guests, he espied Freddy in the dis- 
tance. Excusing himself for a few minutes, Charlie went 
to meet his friend. To enable Freddy if questioned to say 
that he had met Charlie in the fields would be something. 

That there was serious trouble brewing in the Armstrong 
household, Charlie well knew. For some years Mr. Arm- 
strong had been a widower, and an unmarried sister of his 
own was acting as his housekeeper. Until lately, matters 
had' gone on peacefully enough. Miss Armstrong was an 
excellent manager, and his own good mother could not 
have looked after Freddy’s material interests better than 
did Aunt Deborah. When she tried to dominate the boy’s 
spiritual affairs she received a severe shock. Her creed 
was several degrees sterner than that of her brother. 

“ Some vile Papist has been tampering with your son,” 
she said one day to Freddy’s father. Brusquely enough, 
the latter told her that she was out of her mind. 

“Question him for yourself,” she retorted, and Mr. 


COMING OF AGE 193 

Armstrong (now more than ever occupied with business 
that took him abroad) promised to do so at the first op- 
portunity. 

That a stern and unbending father should have an equally 
stern and unbending son seems natural enough : to Mr. 
Armstrong the fact was inexplicable and shocking. The 
mere idea of a boy of fifteen presuming to have religious 
opinions other than those in which he had been brought up, 
roused the man to a very fury of anger. What had he 
done? — what had he neglected to do? — Mr. Armstrong 
asked himself, that he, the senior deacon of the Calvinistic 
Baptists and Superintendent of the Sunday School, should 
have a son who unblushingly, nay sturdily and fearlessly 
admitted his desire to be a Roman Catholic. Surely if 
ever a man were justified in a liberal use of the rod, Mr. 
Armstrong argued, he was that man. And he had used it — 
used it until the boy writhed in an agony he could not hide ; 
but without any further effect. 

Charlie knew nothing of this physical punishment. 
Freddy told him that his father had found him reading 
Catholic books, had tried to extort from him an oath on the 
Bible that he would never again touch such matter or hold 
any kind of conversation with a Papist. Respectfully, but 
with a firmness that made the man grind his teeth, Freddy 
refused to take the oath or even to make a promise. 

Nor did Charlie know that the boy had spent the pre- 
vious Sunday locked up in his bedroom with a Bible, a 
loaf of bread, and a jug of water. Freddy did not speak 


194 


COMING OF AGE 


of these things. He had reached the age when a boy be- 
gins to feel the disgrace of punishment more than its pain. 

But on this birthday afternoon as Charlie met him in the 
meadow — though Freddy’s face lighted up for a moment as 
he gave his old friend hearty congratulations — it was easy 
to see that the maltster’s son was suffering. He was the 
same Freddy that Charlie had always known. Almost as 
tall again as the little chap going in eight, he had kept his 
roundness and plumpness, had developed considerable 
length of limb and strength of muscle, walking with a slow 
easy stride and a firm strong tread that many a lad of 
eighteen might have envied. He did not look fifteen, and 
in its rosy innocence his face was that of a child — at this 
moment that of a troubled and saddened child. 

“ Ho\y are things going at home ? ” was Charlie’s first 
question when the congratulations were over. 

Freddy turned his head away as he answered, “ Very 
bad, Charlie. About as bad as they could be.” 

Charlie said something sympathetic and waited. 

“ I expect I shall be sent away soon,” Freddy went on 
after a pause. “ Father hasn’t said so, but Aunt Deborah 
has been hinting at it. It’ll be to some boarding-school, I 
suppose. I didn’t want to talk to you about it to-day, 
Charlie, but I think I’d better. You see, I might be sent 
off at any moment. It won’t be any good. I’ll go, of 
course, but I won’t stop. I can’t, you know. I mean, I 
daren't. 

Charlie knew not what to say. If Freddy had been an 


COMING OF AGE 


195 


average boy the case would have been simple enough : but 
Mr. Armstrong’s son was not an average b6y. He had not 
been an average child : it was unlikely that he would be an 
average man. Having talked the matter over with Father 
Connelly, Charlie would have known exactly what to say to 
an ordinary youngster who fancied that he wanted to be a 
Catholic. No one knew better than Charlie that the case 
of the lad before him was an exceptional one. The very 
last time they had talked together Freddy had said : “ You 

see, Charlie, it’s like this : if I die a Protestant I shall lose 
my soul. It isn’t as if I had any doubt at all. I just 
haven’t. I know that I must be a Catholic. I’ve thought 
about it for more than five years : I’ve read about it for the 
last two years. I’ve prayed about it ever since I came to 
see you when you were ill.” 

Under these circumstances, to tell a boy not to do any- 
thing in a hurry, not to be rash, to wait and pray and live 
in hope of a change in his father’s attitude — all this seemed 
absurd. 

“ Is your father very angry just now? ” Charlie inquired. 

“ He couldn’t be more angry, I think. And it’s very bad 
for him. He’s so stout, you see. Oh, and I forgot to tell 
you, Charlie, he found that Garden of the Soul. I’m so 
sorry, but he burnt it. I told him it wasn’t mine.” 

“ Don’t bother about it, Freddy. You’ve got your beads 
haven’t you ? ” 

Again the head turned away and the rosy cheeks grew 


rosier. 


[96 


COMING OF AGE 


“ He found them too/’ Freddy said after a pause. 

“ But — but how could he? ” Charlie asked. “ You wore 
them next to your skin didn’t you, Freddy? ” 

The averted head nodded. 

“ You don’t mean to say that he stripped you? ” 

Another nod. 

“ But why? Oh, I say, Freddy old chap, you don’t 
mean to say that he’s been stripping you to flog you ? ” 

No nod this time. Freddy had almost turned his back 
upon his friend. Charlie expressed his horror and disgust. 
“ Was it very bad, old man? ” he asked. “ Tell me about 
it.” 

With his head well down and printing little patterns in 
the rain-washed field-path with his nailed boot, Freddy said : 

“ The last one was. It was the day before yesterday. 
He called a man in from the farm and had me fastened 
down on a bed. I didn’t mean to cry out, but I couldn’t 
help it. It hurt fearfully. He used a whip of some sort : 
I couldn’t see it. When I took my shirt off he saw the 
rosary. That was why he flogged me so hard.” 

“ But, Freddy ! ” exclaimed the amazed and disgusted 
Charlie, “ you — you — ” 

“ I know, Charlie. But I thought he’d better do it. Yes, 
I could have got away before they tied me down, but I 
thought it would only make father more angry.” 

Charlie had always counselled the boy to obedience and 
submission: he could not now give contrary advice. And 
yet — 


COMING OF AGE 


19; 


“ But it's the last time, Charlie !” Freddy said, turning 
round now and looking his friend in the face. “ I’m sure 
my father doesn’t really know how passionate he is. He’ll 
hurt me more than he means to, and I must hinder that. 
Besides ” — and a strong light suddenly came into the clear 
blue eyes — “ I’ve thoroughly made up my mind to be a 
Catholic. All the flogging in the world won’t make me 
change. If he turns me out of doors I can get work 
somewhere.” 

“ Freddy! ” exclaimed Charlie, “ have you really counted 
the cost? Do you know what you’re giving up? ” 

“ Yes,” said the lad quickly, “ I know what I’m giving 
up. At any rate, I know that my father is worth forty 
thousand pound, at the very least, and that I’m his only 
son. If it were forty million I wouldn’t promise not to be 
a Catholic.” 

In some boys of that age the words would have been 
mere brag: Freddy meant every one - of them. 

“ If the worst came to the worst,” Charlie began, “ Mr. 
Marson might — ” 

“ No,” interrupted the boy, “ that wouldn’t do, Charlie. 
It’s ever so good of you to think of it. But it wouldn’t do 
at all. My father would only come here and have a row 
with Mr. Marson and take me back home. No, if I leave 
him I shall go right away. I know what I want to do. 
I’m afraid to say it, Charlie, even to you. But I shall 
write to you, never fear. And you — ” 

“ Write? my dear Freddy, every day if you like.” 


198 


COMING OF AGE 


Freddy was afriad to stay longer, and after a few more 
words the two separated. 

“ Seems to me,” Charlie said to himself as he strolled 
back to the house, “ that I am not the only boy who has 
come of age to-day. In some things Freddy is my senior.” 


CHAPTER XXL 


NINE YEARS LATER. 

In the passing of nine years changes are many. Obviously 
enough, everybody living is nine years older, and if, nine 
years ago, Charlie Chittywick was one-and-twenty, he is 
now thirty years old. He is also a married man and a 
father. 

To the eye of a visitor Ridingdale town has changed 
very little: to the eye of a resident not at all. It was 
inevitable that, sooner or later, Miss Rippell’s shop should 
be enlarged, but the big sheets of plate glass that have taken 
the place of the bow-window do not materially alter the 
general effect of the High Street. Colpington’s shop does 
not seem to have changed by so much as the position of 
a bottle of scent : it cannot however be said that the 
chemist himself was not looking older. There are folk who 
tell William Lethers that he is as young as ever: most 
of them are people who owe him money. Colonel Rugger- 
son is not an old man, but the death of his wife seems to 
have added to his years. 

One of the really important changes has been the coming 
of the Squire. It is a great matter that Ridingdale Hall 
should be inhabited, albeit by a poor, a desperately poor 
man. His influence in the place is hard to account for, yet 


199 


200 


NINE YEARS LATER 


that influence is strong. To be poor is bad enough, but 
to be a Catholic is, in the eyes of most of the Ridingdale 
folk, much worse; yet the Squire is both these things. 
However, the people cannot forget that he is of the old 
Dalesworth stock, and, though they would like him to be 
better off, they congratulate themselves upon the fact that 
he belongs to them and is no mill-owning, factory-building 
interloper. 

Father Connelly, who was old when he first came to 
Ridingdale, has retired, and his place is taken by Father 
Horbury who, it is said, was Mr. Ridingdale’ s school-mate, 
and, like the Squire himself, a convert. Things Catholic 
are beginning to look up throughout the Dale. The old 
chapel in Hall Lane seems very full at Sunday Mass. 

Mr. and Mrs. Marson are still hale and hearty, and 
prouder than ever of their adopted son Charlie Chittywick. 
For though, in marrying Mrs. Marson’s favourite niece, 
Charlie acted with perfect freedom, there is no denying the 
fact that the marriage gave immense satisfaction to the 
good old people, and that, if he had wedded to order, the 
Marsons could not have been more delighted. Perhaps 
since the beginning of the world no young man had ever 
proposed to a maiden with quite such a feeling of hopeless- 
ness as that experienced by Charlie. Except that his love 
was honest and true, he had nothing to urge in his own 
favour. Everything seemed to be against the success of 
his suit. Only a year or two before, his father had died 
in prison. The memory of his own antecedents must, he 


NINE YEARS LATER 


201 


thought, be still fresh throughout the neighbourhood. He 
had nothing yet that he could call his own : his position was 
that of a superior labourer on the farm of his adopted 
parents. It was quite true that he had become Mr. Mar- 
son’s right-hand man, and that he was already looked up 
to by the rest as the “ young gaffer ; ” yet he hoped and 
prayed that it might be many years before he would in- 
herit the farm. However, to his complete surprise and 
overwhelming joy, the favourite niece had accepted him. 

But if you would fully realize the fact that nine years 
have really passed away since Charlie Chittywick came 
of age, just make a Christmas call at Marson’s Farm and 
inquire for Father Armstrong. If he is not there, you will 
find him at the Ridingdale Presbytery. In either place 
he is at home, though he is only a visitor. 

He is no longer little Freddy Armstrong. At the age 
of fifteen, when you saw him last, he was not little; to-day 
he is in every sense of the word a man. Though not really 
tall, he has height and breadth. When he laughs — he does 
this often enough — he looks very young: when his face 
is in repose he is by no means boyish-looking. He was 
ordained priest three months ago, and his work lies in a big 
northern city. This is by no means his first visit to Riding- 
dale since that memorable afternoon when Charlie met him 
in the fields. The story of his life for the last nine years 
is too long to be told in detail; yet is is a very simple 
story. 

On Charlie’s coming-of-age day Freddy had had a strong 


202 


NINE YEARS LATER 


presentiment that his father was going to take some very 
decisive action. The boy was not prepared for what 
happened that very night. He had scarcely reached home 
when his aunt informed him that his father had telegraphed 
from Leeds to say that Freddy was to pack up at once, and 
be ready to leave Ridingdale on the following morning. 
Mr. Marson himself was coming home by the eight o’clock 
train. Freddy did not pack up. He waited for the arrival 
of his father, and in a few firm but respectful, and even 
pleading, words declared his intention of becoming a Catho- 
lic. 

That night Freddy found himself homeless. Too angry 
for coherent speech, Mr. Armstrong had almost thrown his 
son into the street. Part of that night the boy spent in 
an out-house belonging to his father : long before dawn he 
took to the high-road. In his pocket he had exactly ten- 
pence. 

Freddy was homeless, but he was not without a plan for 
the future. Some twenty-five miles or so from Ridingdale 
there was a house which was spoken of by the country 
people as “ the Monastery.” It was not a monastery at all, 
but a Catholic school kept by a small community of re- 
ligious men. Before sunset Freddy had reached it. Ask- 
ing for the Principal, the boy begged to know if he was in 
need of a servant — outdoor or indoor. At first he said 
nothing of his determination to be a Catholic. Charlie had 
told him that every person required long and careful in- 
struction before being received into the Church: Freddy’s 


NINE YEARS LATER 


203 


great desire was to live in or near some place where he 
could receive that instruction. 

No servant was needed in this Catholic College, but the 
Father Principal could not but be interested in his visitor, 
and after putting many questions to him — the answers to 
which astonished his Reverence not a little — Freddy was 
offered supper and a bed. That same night the priest wrote 
several letters, two of which went to Ridingdale. In the 
end, this school became the home of Mr. Armstrong’s son 
for nearly three years. When the day of Baptism came, 
both Father Connelly and Charlie drove over from Riding- 
dkle to be present at the ceremony. Freddy’s radiant 
happiness was something never to be forgotten — only to 
be compared with a day that came nine years later, that of 
his ordination. 

Freddy had scarcely passed from the school to the sem- 
inary when his father died. On his death-bed Mr. Arm- 
strong had asked to see his son. The boy started at 
once, but he was too late. However, in his father’s will 
there was that which Freddy could not but regard as a sign 
of forgiveness, for to his amazement he found that he in- 
herited a hundred a year. 


On the first Christmas after Father Armstrong’s ordina- 
tion there was much excitement in Ridingdale, for not only 
was the young priest to say the midnight Mass, he was to 
preach at the Miss a Cantata on Christmas Day. 


204 


NINE YEARS LATER 


Certainly it was not the music that attracted the crowd 
on that happy occasion, for, to be truthful, both the singing 
and the playing of Mozart’s Twelfth Mass could scarcely 
have been worse. Squire Ridingdale’s boys were all in the 
nursery at this period; Lance was not yet twelve months 
old, and Hilary was not quite six, and the great musical 
reform had not begun. As Father Horbury said after- 
wards, if anything could have mitigated the happine^/^f 
such a festival, it would have been the distressing per- 
formance of his mixed choir. 

But the many Protestants who had come to hear “ young 
Armstrong ” preach did not go away unimpressed. Wil- 
liam Lethers faithfully collected their comments and im- 
pressions, and the remark that was made oftenest and 
amused him most was, “ Well, I must say that if he’d been 
a Baptist, he couldn’t have preached a more Gospel ser- 
mon.” 


“ If your father had been alive, I feel sure he would have 
come to hear you,” said Charlie as he and the young priest 
sat together alone on that happy Christmas night. 

“ I think he would,” the other replied. “ I feel sure that 
when he sent for me he wanted to forgive me. And, yes, 
I think he would have crept in to-day — at any rate for the 
sermon.” 

“ God is too good to me ! ” exclaimed Charlie. “ The 
whole day has been crowded with happiness.” 


NINE YEARS LATER 


205 




“ Don’t forget that I am your convert. If it had not 
been for you — ” 

“ No, no,” Charlie remonstrated, “ don’t say that. God 
wanted you, my dear Father Fred, and He called you.” 

“ That is quite true, my dear Charlie ; but I shall always 
think that you had much to do with my conversion. You 
made me think. Nay, you taught me how to pray. Some- 
how, ever since I was a little brat you have in one way 
or other been my good angel. Providence threw us to- 
gether. You have no idea how much I owe to you. O 
yes, I know all that you are going to urge, Charlie, but I 
will have my say. Your example was everything. I was 
only a little chap when — you turned to the right and kept 
straight on; but I understood.” 

“ Let us say that God offered each of us a grace, and — ” 
Charlie hesitated. 

“ And we took it,” said Father Armstrong. “ Blessed 
be God!” 

Charlie knelt at the young priest’s feet for a good-night 
blessing. 


THE END. 
































































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